


As the Story Unfolds

by NothingTame



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventures, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1886577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingTame/pseuds/NothingTame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories of Serein, the less-than-typical hero of the Dovahkiin tale. Short, plump, hardly youthful, but thrust into the role of savior nonetheless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She fought the whole way off the cart.  

There was no polite exchange between her and the Imperial counting out his victims, no reassuring suggestion that her body would go back to her people... wherever they were. Even watching the poor horse-thief take an arrow in the back did nothing to mollify her. 

Who could stay calm in the face of unjustified death?

It didn't matter that she looked  _nothing like_ the rabble they'd grabbed her with (short, dark, plump, _motherly)_ , that she'd been unarmed (did a basket full of snowberries count as a weapon?), gaping like an idiot while the field about her erupted with men and arrows and yells and blood. Her protests and insistence that her home was right over the damn hill meant nothing. She was rounded up with the rest and knocked unconscious when she wouldn't stop her loud arguments to the contrary. 

Now, dressed in the rags of her homespun gown, bound hair in a disarray, she thrashed against her captors, screamed and cried and  _begged_ the other captives to speak up and tell the  _truth..._!

And in the back of her mind, the warning she'd received from a dirty stranger on her doorstep the evening before-

_("-stay home tomorrow, there's naught but brigands and trouble in these woods-!")_

He must have known an ambush was in place. She couldn't even remember why she didn't believe him. 

In the end, it didn't matter anyway. She never got to the executioner's block, didn't have to stare down at bloody stump of a neck on the head of the man that bravely met his death before her. 

The sky opened up and a dragon dropped on the tower. 

 _A dragon._  


	2. Chapter 2

Serein had always liked trees. It had saddened her to learn that Kynareth's prized tree at the center of Whiterun was dying. Seeing it in person was even more depressing.

She stood before it in the sun, trying to envision what it had been in its prime. To witness its failing was to understand that all things do indeed die, great and small, beautiful and harrowing, strong and fragile. It was the nature of time to reclaim what it had brought forth. 

It bothered her what Danica Pure-Spring had requested; to find the weapon that the Eldergleam mother-tree would cringe from, and then take its very life from it to maintain this withered thing here in the capital. It felt wrong and in her heart she  _knew_ that this wasn't something Kynareth would approve of. 

Her troubled thoughts followed her from the Cloud District to her own Breezehome, vexed at the quest laid before her even as she packed her bags to head on her way. No one else would do this but her, she'd insisted this to the priestess, and while the woman seemed doubtful Serein knew there was no other way around it. Partial to the Wind Goddess as she was, in her bones she knew this was for her to do.

Leather armor buckled on, daggers at her hips and her bow, Roar, slung over her shoulder, she left a note for Lydia before heading out the door. She turned her back to the street as she moved to lock up.

"I've been the victim of a hoax," came a low, graveled voice from behind her. "Or have finally succumbed to old-age and poor memory."

Standing on the top step before her door, she met the leveled gaze of a well-armored, gray-haired Orsimer with a cool expression. He was an impressive sort of warrior, a crossbow at his back and daggers of his own at his belt. He reeked of professionalism and strength, his silver eyes focused and steady. While he was definitely older, there was nothing in him that suggested anything but power and strength.

"Can I help you?" she asked, shifting her pack and tightening its straps for better comfort, trying not to squirm beneath so intense a regard.

"Perhaps." He crossed his arms over his broad chest. "I am Durak, and I'm looking for the one they're calling ' _Dovahdiin_ '."

Serein snorted, inherited memory tickling at the word. "I'm not a maid."

Durak blinked. "Excuse me?"

She tried not to smirk. " _Dovahdiin_ implies female, young and naive." She reached a hand back to casually count her arrows, glancing down the road at the War-Maiden and considering a restock even as she answered him. "I think you meant  _Dovahkiin._ If that is the case, then yes, you are looking for me. I've not shaken the folks here of the title and every time I try, they just look offended. So I gave up." Satisfied that she had enough for her journey, she tightened her quiver, rolling her shoulders just as it began to snow. She tugged at her fur-trimmed hood, pulling it over her black hair. 

The old Orc just stared at her, arms still folded. After about a minute, she shrugged and stepped down from her porch, dropping her eyes from level to his to about the center of his chest. He was taller than she thought.

The guffaw that burst from him as she headed to the gate made her roll her eyes. "If you're only going to laugh," she called over her shoulder as the guard pushed at the door to let her out, "I'm afraid I can't help you. Have a lovely day, Durak." She didn't bother looking back, drawing her cloak about her tighter as she squinted at the sky and made her way down the road leading from Whiterun. 

* * *

 

She stayed the night at Riverwood, purchasing a room and a meal with hard-won coin. Even after amassing enough to buy her little house, she was a miser to the core, something she blamed on losing everything when the Imperials arrested her and threw her to her fate. In the future, she was sure she saw a day when she wouldn't be so tight-fisted, but this Dragonborn business was both dangerous and lucrative; she really didn't know if she'd make it that far.  

The next morning, she set out towards Helgen, her nerves still surprisingly calm. When she came to the gates of her almost-death, she stood at the fork before them and gazed, wonderingly, at the charred ruin of the town. 

Not so long ago, she knew, but if felt like a lifetime ago when she fled through the tunnels underneath her very feet to an unknown future. 

And it all started with a trip to the meadows on an early spring day. 

Her dalliance with memory cost her, when with chagrin she heard the slow pull of a nocked bow.

"You picked a bad day to get lost, woman," came the mocking remark from an arrogant bandit. It seemed Helgen, smoking wreck that it was, had not remained unoccupied long. 

Three to one, not too difficult. What she lacked in strength, she made up for in agility and speed, which was surprising in and of itself. Wide hips and thick thighs, padded but powerful under the surface, gave her an advantage she'd never considered. She didn't  _look_ like a fighter, so no one expected her to act like one, nor have any skill at it.

And then there was the  _Thu'um_. Really, it wasn't what she'd consider a fair fight.

A resounding  _Fus_ bowled over two while her dagger found the heart of one foe, a dirty shot to the groin dropped another to his knees right before he took a blade to the eye, then a drop, a kick, and a tackle had planted her heavy body on the chest of the third.

Grim amusement lit her face at the shock of the Nord who's head she had trapped between her thighs, the last of the three. His eyes were wide, panting, mouth open to beg, maybe, before she plunged her blade into one alarmed blue eye. 

She cleaned her weapons in the blood stained snow, piling the bodies at the fork as a warning to those who might travel this way. She left their armor neatly stacked after searching for useful items and gold, collecting a few healing potions and a hundred septims between the three. Sometimes it felt a little too easy, but she felt no guilt at taking out three would-be murders before they'd a chance to do more harm. 

Making her way up the angled road that would lead her to Orphan Rock, it began to snow again. She tugged up her hood, noting it was midday despite the cloud cover, and dug into her pack for a bit of cheese and an apple as she continued on her way. 

* * *

 

The Orc caught up with her at the base of the ravine. 

He wasn't loud, she'd give him that, and if she hadn't been keeping an ear out for  _anything_ out of place, she'd never had known he was there. As it was, he looked annoyed when she looked him dead in the eye from the thicket he'd hid behind, jerking her head to invite him up to her perch behind a boulder. She'd known he was following her since Riverwood, but she still wasn't sure why. 

"Are you waiting for the other boot to drop?" she whispered to him, moving over to give him more room. 

He glared at her, a question in his raised eyebrow. She tried not to smile.

"For your hoax. Are you waiting for the punchline?" Now she did smile at him before standing on her toes to briefly peer over the edge, dropping back down a half-breath later. 

"You really _are_ the _Dovahkiin_ , then," came his low, grumbled admission. He too stood, glanced over, then returned to his spot. He muttered what she could only assume was a curse. "Hagravens."

"Mmm," Serein agreed cheerfully. "At least two, and I think they've at least one follower apiece. My information tells me there's three hags in total, and one of them has something I need." She tilted her head at him. "Care to help? I'll split the treasure with you, seventy thirty?"

He glared at her. "Why so generous?"

She shrugged. "I'm in a generous mood. Plus, I really only want the dagger they have. It's be-spelled and nasty, probably black, Daedra-touched too. I need it for a friend."

"And if I don't help you?"

"I don't listen to your recruitment speech."

He twitched.

* * *

 

The two along the bottom of the Rock were fairly easy to dispatch, especially with the crossbow-toting monster at her back. He was good in a fight, better than, if she didn't think such information would inflate his ego. She hated magic-abusers, so it was with relish that she wiped the mocking expressions off their ugly, evil-looking faces. Their whiny little supplicants fell quickly after that, young women who didn't know any better. Those deaths she did not enjoy, and she left their bodies untouched. 

"Feel free," she muttered to her Orsimer companion after checking the Hagravens for the dagger. "I want nothing of their's."

She left him to search through robes and satchels, climbing the steps to a small encampment she'd noticed along the ravine wall. There was a chest here and a body, the latter making her lip curl as she cast about for the other sister. She should have known better, though, should have relied more on stealth than stomping up the path on her own. 

The Orsimer below shouted a warning, and she spun in time to see flame and power. As the fireball careened into her field of vision, she rolled to the side a moment too late, mage-fire searing her neck and shoulder. Her leathers caught most of it but what flesh was exposed blistered. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a nasty piece of work standing on a log stretched out from the ravine wall to the jutting rock in the center. 

This hag was foul, fouler than her sisters and bristling with anger. Sharp words and power shot effortlessly forth and Serein snarled in reply, filling her lungs and opening her mouth to Shout the creature to her death. 

Two arrows fired in quick succession took away the Dragonborn's chance, however, and it was with impotent fury that the monstrous creation staggered backward to collapse on the ground, legs dangling over the edge. 

Relief flooded her, unwelcome gratitude seeping through the pain. Trembling hands dug into her satchel for a healing potion, uncorking it with her teeth and pouring half of it on her skin before gratefully drinking the rest. In the moments that she healed, she heard the Orc pick the lock on the chest and grunt in satisfaction with what he found. Without bothering to look his way, she stood to make her way carefully across the fallen log. 

The dagger in question was gripped in the pale, veined hand of the hag, and she wrested it from the stiffening corpse right before kicking it over the edge. Nettlebane, the blade was called. She wrapped the thing in leather and stuffed it in her pack. 

Hefting it to her back, she turned about to head back down and on her way. A large pouch caught her square in the chest, Serein grunting in surprise and catching the bag before it fell. She looked up at the Orsimer in surprise.

"That's your half," he graveled at her. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

"So," Serein drawled as she pushed a full mug of ale across the table towards the Orc. "Dawnguard?"

Durak gave her a funny look as he accepted the drink. "Aye. Word traveling around that we're recruiting?"

She nodded and took a sip of her tea. "Rumor, mostly. Vampires are popping out of the woodwork nightly, people remember the old tales. I heard about it before Helgen, some, but discarded it as nonsense." Serein snorted. "I don't do that to most anything I hear anymore. After the appearance of  _dragons_ , anything can be true."

They'd made it back to the Sleeping Giant before the snow storm had built in strength, and after much badgering, she had convinced her unwilling follower to have a pint or two with her. Her logic was what won him over; in a storm like this, they'd nothing better to do.

Snow storms always made her pensive. Fond memories of a warm hearth in the midst of the whirling winds, the hiss of snow on a well-made roof overhead. Furs and mulled wine, laughter, bare skin, more heat, lazy hours made fuzzy with pleasure and joy...

The Orc cleared his throat. It might have been the second time, but she had the grace to blush anyway.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "You were saying?"

"I said, you don't look like what they're saying you look like."

Serein laughed. "And what do they say I look like? Nine feet tall? Buxom? Breton? Khajiit? Argonian?" She waggled her eyebrows, undoing the pin of her cloak as the alcohol warmed her through. She undid the catches at her throat, tugging at the leather to loosen it. "It's all true for whoever wants to believe it. I don't care. It is what I am and ignoring my calling almost got me killed. For better or worse, I'll do as Kynareth guides me."

He grunted. "You follow the Goddess of Travelers, then?"

"You follow Malacath, then?" she mocked, annoyed with his tone.

He stared at her, mid-swig.

She rolled her eyes. "I can read, and it's not like you aren't obviously an _Orsimer_."

He cleared his throat. "Right. Yes."

"Honor. Loyalty. He rewards his followers with these things and no small gifts are they." She rubbed a fingertip along the rim of her cup, frowning in thought. "He avenges the betrayed, as well. I considered following him too, when I crawled away from Helgen. But then," she paused with a glance up at him. "I don't think I'm his type."

Their conversation wandered in the snowy hours, they shared a meal and watched other travelers slip in during the evening as the storm chased them through town. It wasn't unpleasant, and Serein was well pleased with her caliber of company.

"Young," he said abruptly, changing from a topic about the immigrating Khajiit selling their wares across Skyrim. "I expected you to be... young. Like, a whelp or something. They talk about the _Dovahkiin_ being feisty and quick in battle, ruthless too." He gestured at her. "You're... well, you're not old, but you're not ... And I've seen you fight. Like a damn whirlwind of blades. The trick you do with your voice is pretty handy as well. We could use your type in the Dawnguard. Experienced and _not dumb_ , not like some of these youngster hotheads we've been pulling in."

"I've no interest in killing vampires out of spite," she muttered, trying not to laugh at his description of her. "But I've no problem slaying the ones that roam through the streets at night to kill as they like."

Durak slammed his fist on the table with a grin. "Then join us!"

"I've also enough on my plate without joining your cause." She added, rubbing at her forehead "The Greybeards on the high mountain are looking for me, called me outright. I've got to answer. Ignoring my calling-"

"-only got you into trouble, yes, I understand that." His irritation shone through a little, and while she knew he didn't mean to hurt her, the price of her past ignorance made it sting tenfold. It must have come through in her face somehow, as regret softened his features and he opened his mouth to respond.

She stood before he had a chance, gripping her pack and pushing back her chair, the scrape across the floor lost in the bustle of the inn. Turning without looking back, she secured Delphine for a moment and made sure she had a room.

The blonde woman nodded. "Lucky too," she added as Serein accepted her key. "That's the last one for the night."

 

* * *

 

"I thought you were ... put out with me."

Serein sighed and tossed her pack in the trunk at the foot of the bed. "Do you want to sleep in the snow?"

"I..."

"I'm sure one of these lovely folk will put you up for a night, in their own homes."

"Well..."

"Someone's bound to have a hayloft you can sleep in."

"Alright. _Alright_."

Serein shoved the extra blanket, sleeping roll, and pillow she'd managed to wrangle from Delphine whilst griping at the blonde the whole time about not telling her sooner about the shortage on rooms. _"I was busy!"_ she'd protested, though her chagrin was plain to see; she knew better.

The room wasn't awful, far from it. It wasn't small but it only had the one bed, one of the larger kinds with extra pillows. The inn had provided a basin of hot water with the promise of one refill, several washcloths, lavender soap, and an ewer. The brazier across the room made it toasty warm and even with the extra body in the room it was still quite pleasant.

Behind the privacy screen, Serein stripped and, armed with soap and cloth, scrubbed herself raw. Bandit blood came off brown, and whatever it was that hagravens expelled too. She didn't bother to wash her hair, bound up and braided it had fared far better than the rest of her. With a last rinse and soapless scrub, she was satisfied with her results, wrapping herself in large towel to open the window and throw the soiled water into the flowerbed.

After admiring the power of the storm, the Orc helped her close the shutters and draw the curtains, tucking in the fabric into the cracks along the edges.

"I bought a refill on the hot water," she told him, tugging at her braid to undo it. "I wasn't sure if you wanted to bathe or not."

He looked surprised. She smiled. His lips curved around his tusks as he responded in kind.

"That was ... very kind of you. My thanks."

The basin was refilled and placed behind the screen, in short order she heard him unbuckling armor and stripping the linen plainclothes he wore beneath.

She peeked around the edge when she was sure his back was turned; she couldn't help it, curiosity was one of her greatest flaws. That, and her intense attraction to the feral and unusual couldn’t be ignored.

_And he is definitely both of those things._

She'd noticed him from her doorstep the day before, his broad shoulders and chest, his height, his self discipline. Her attraction was typical for her; she wasn't drawn to the fair faced or the culturally handsome, the pretty features of symmetry or the customary traits that most women were drawn to. She could appreciate strength, however, and this Orc had it in spades. He fairly rippled when he walked, even beneath the layers of mail armor and leather. She couldn't resist the chance to revel in it uncovered, glorious in the firelight.

The ridges of him were impressive, speckled in older scars probably received before she was born. Sleek muscle, lean and dense, covered him from head to toe, and while she could only view him from the back, she knew he'd be just as impressive to behold from the front. Her teeth dug in to her bottom lip as she admired him, pulling herself back with every bit of willpower she had available to her.

With a small sigh, she pulled on her sleeping shift, an over-sized tunic that draped to her knees, and crawled in to bed. Soon, her companion was done with his bathing and emerged in clean linens and tunic, returning her smile with another nod of thanks.

She mostly managed to keep from blushing. Mostly.

"It's very warm near the brazier," she explained when he arched a brow at her, his gray here wet and slicked back as she fanned herself. "Very warm."

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morninglight gave me a great idea about bringing up Serein's reaction to Mirmulnir. I ran off with it, cackling like a mad-woman. Because that's what I do.

_It was morning. The air was crisp, made wet and clean by the night's rain. She would never forget that smell._

_Serein had a death grip on her borrowed bow, sweat prickling her skin even in the cool morning breeze. Irileth, the Dunmer housecarl, was barking orders at her men to fan out and keep their eyes on the sky, but Serein knew_ exactly  _where they should have been looking._

_The broken tower, toppled ruin like some giant child's toy, was made of stone but the fire that burst from this magnificent creature charred it like so much wood._

_He'd winged in from the south, cresting over the low mountains with a joyous roar that reverberated from cliff to cliff, skipping across tree and rock through the whole valley. A smile lit her face before she even knew what she was doing, climbing the stairs two at a time to get to the top of the tower._

_It was high enough to watch him fly, to see him bank over the occasional tree and brush his wings over cliff and stone. He was a sight, he was power and beauty and-_

_The terror that gripped her was profound when he dove at her and the other archers at the top of the building, rage in his voice as he hovered to spit flame and anger at them. Someone yelled 'Fire!' and she obeyed, dammit it all, she obeyed._

_She was the first to reach his body when it careened in to the ground, the dragon still spitting violence and words..._ words ...!  _  
_

_Her hands reached out, her boots crushing ash and crackling grass as she stalked slow before him. When his head swiveled about to look at her, the alarm in the lines of him made her flinch._

_Her own terror was no match for this screaming fear that contorted his draconic features, his enormous bulk sprawling back with a howl of fear. Mirmulnir begged her-_

_("Dovahkiin- ...NO!")_

_-but her arrows had flown too true. His graceless stagger drove too many points home, and it was with that plea he choked, spat blood, and died._

_The heartbreak she felt ... Something in her ruptured, and while she was spared the accusations of betrayal her tears could have thrown forth, her trembling hands would never forget the supple feel of Mirmulnir's scales beneath her palms._

_No sooner had she touched him, this dragon who's name she knew, that ethereal fires raced across his flesh, searing away the tendon and the muscle to reveal the ivory bones beneath. The fire that plumed forth, the energy of his soul, poured into her veins and her heart and set to racing a series of memories that were not her's._

_When the ecstacy faded and she was left sagging, hands on her knees to keep from pitching over, her swimming vision caught sight of red, polished wood tucked into the ribcage of the great beast._

_Among a nest of arrows, a bow of age she couldn't count was lodged between a pair of ribs, fire polished with a sweet, powerful draw._

_Unable to admit she_ knew _his name and unwilling to dishonor his beautiful, brief flight of freedom, Serein called the bow 'Roar', and tucked it over her shoulder, the only thing she claimed from that fight of her own free will._

* * *

 

It was never a nightmare, never fear that had her quivering into wakefulness from that too-familiar dream. It was sorrow that had her drifting back, regret as sweet as any kiss that had her rubbing her eyes and sighing with loss.  

Unlike her previous rousing, however, this was the first time she had outside help. 

At first she thought to accuse the Orc of climbing in to  _her_ bed, but a quick sweep of her senses found that she was in fact on the floor, in  _his_ space, bundled up against him with her comforter sprawled across them both. Her hands had tucked themselves under her chin, which was on his chest, and her strong, soft thighs had latched about his nearest leg. As ... close ... as the position was, she was quite comfortable. And warm. 

A throat cleared, the awkward sound making her jerk as Durak's mouth was right next to her ear. With a wince, she lifted her head to get a good look at the man beneath her, doing her best to look contrite. 

"Bad dream?" he drawled, for all the strangeness of the situation still managing to sound all kinds of amused. 

The Dragonborn blushed. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Serein inhaled sharply when a warm, large hand planted itself on her backside,  _under her_ tunic, and gave a gentle, cautious squeeze. She made an appreciative noise, resisting the childish desire to squirm as she flicked her gaze upward. Looking into his silver eyes, she saw experience and an age far greater than hers, coupled with a sly knowing  _look_ that told her volumes. Sensing no offense, she smiled cheekily at him.

"Ah," she breathed. He'd seen her peeking. "How did you know?"

His grin was reluctant, like he didn't want to give himself away. It warred with his professional side, she could sense, a seriousness of nature he fought to keep about him lest he come off as too at ease and therefore weak. It was a common thing for _Orsimer_ , she'd noted, to be rigid and serious and intimidating as much as possible, _without_ invoking violence. She wondered what his mask kept at bay, but despite the intimate position, she didn't think it appropriate to ask such a personal thing. 

"There's a mirror on the table next to the pitcher. Must admit," he rumbled as he shifted closer to her. "Didn't expect such appreciation from a human. If I didn't know better, I'd have thought you were a vampire; you looked about ready to take a bite out of my backside."

Serein gave a startled chortle that turned his smirk into a true grin. Her cheeks still burned at having been caught so completely, and she gave a small shrug.

"I'm a bit eccentric in my tastes," she confessed. "My husband, for example, was the ugliest _Altmer_ the Nine ever let roam." At his look of disbelief, she widened her eyes in innocent insistence. "It's true! The make homely elves, I swear. He was short, only a little taller than I, and about half my weight. He had a big nose and hair that stuck up to the stars, easily clearing those big, uneven ears of his. He had no chin, small feet, and," she added, dropping her voice to a whisper, "...the fuzziest nipples I have ever encountered."

At this point, he was openly guffawing, shaking with his laughter as she clung to his chest to keep from falling off.

"There must have been a reason to marry such a goblin," he gasped when he found air to breathe.

Serein marveled at him, because while lit from joy and humor he was a sight she didn't expect; beauty in the midst of nowhere. Making an attractive man laugh beneath her was an oasis from the unusual turn her life had taken this past year.

"Oh, pssh," she said, batting away his opinion with a gesture. "He had beautiful eyes and a pleasant nature, mellow and relaxed with a fathomless sense of humor. He could make me giggle over the silliest things, there were times I thought I'd be sick with the laughter." Her grin turned wicked as she leaned closer to him. "He was also blessed,  _obscenely_ so, below the belt. I often wondered how he didn't keel over from blood loss whenever we made love."

"Impossible. An _Altmer_?!" _  
_

She propped her chin up on her hand. "Oh? Seen many naked gold-skins, have you?  _Male_  ones? Besides, you _Orsimer_ are cousins to the Folk, surely your common ancestor would be gift enough." With that, she waggled her eyebrows and very, very carefully lifted her thigh to press it against the prominent bulge in his trousers. 

"Hmph," he grumbled, trying not to smile as he ran a hand through his metal-gray hair. After a moment of searching her face, however, his expression grew somber. "What happened to him, then?" he queried softly.

Serein gave pause, remembering. "Sweating sickness. He stayed too long in the mountains hunting and came back with a fever. He died three says later."

Memory invaded quick like a storm, a brief shadow that dimmed the sun of her heart. It passed quickly enough, however; it was not in her nature to dwell too much over her losses. Still, her silence didn't go without notice. She felt a hand stir her hair. Her gaze lifted to his. Regret drew down his mouth into a sad expression. 

"I am sorry, _Dovahkiin_." His tone was sincere. "I know this pain twice over, but illness leaves you without a target to place your blame. You have my sympathies."

"Ah, don't feel too sorry for me. We had a good run, he and I. His passing was grieved long ago, gone these six years." She gave a small shrug, then peered up at him. "You said twice over? I'd make a joke about you over-burdening them with babies, but I know you Orcs have different traditions about families and death."

His startled laugh had her beaming again.  _I should make this my new hobby, traveling comedian to_ Orsimer _strongholds. I'd be Blood-kin by the end of the summer._

"My wives would like you," he chuckled, before his expression grew somber once more, the cloud that pervaded her lingering much longer in his eyes. "Rashuk and Lamdug. Vampires took them."

"That's what you meant by 'blame'."

He glanced at her. "You begrudge me my vengeance?"

She bared both palms to him, shaking her head. "Far be it for me to argue the topic of vengeance with an  _Orc_ of all creatures. I know better."

Their laughing mood subdued, silence reigned in the dimming light of the room. It was still early with dawn still nearly six hours away. The brazier was banked but the heat of Durak proved more than enough. She was dozing before she knew it, drifting away beneath the gentle touches through her hair. 

As handsome as she thought he was, it was a boon to settle like this with a person, without demand or expectation, bodies companionably keeping each other warm and cozy. She'd forgotten how lonely she'd been in her new role, despite getting pounced by dragons when traveling through the country, couriers running to her with news from afar from Jarl and peasant alike. In her heart, she knew she needed to continue on, to learn more about what the Gods have made of her life, but she resisted. The Greybeards had called from the great mountain and High Hrothgar itself to summon her, their voices resounding through the plains about Whiterun with the death of Mirmulnir still fresh on her heart. It worried her, to sense what was in store for her and how  _lonely_ that road might be; it kept her from taking the long road to Irkngthand and up those many, many steps. 

Morning found the pair of them much as it had when they dosed off, cuddled close and content. But as much as at pained at least her, Serein knew the world would not wait. The world was calling and she had errands to finish. 

And so it was that despite the brief touch of intimacy that night, the two of them bid their good-byes in front of the inn, regret touching both their gazes. 

"I wish you luck on your quest, friend Orc," she murmured, needlessly checking her straps a third time. "I truly hope you find what you're looking for."

It startled her to no end when he captured her hand and actually bowed over it like a gentleman in the high courts. "And you, lady. I truly hope I see you again, and in good health." In public as they were, his tone was still very suggestive, so much so it had her blushing to the roots of her hair. "If you've ever the need to find me in the meantime, the Dawnguard have reclaimed the old fort beyond Riften. We could use all the help we can get." He added the last bit as a reminder to himself, she was certain. 

With a final lingering grin, the pair turned about and headed in different directions; she towards Whiterun, and him towards the west in search of new recruits and aid to his cause. 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case it needs to be said, I do not own anything about this game. I did, however, take a few creative freedoms with certain aspects, like the appearance of the werewolves, for example.

Becoming a werewolf was on the bottom of a non-existent list of things Serein wanted to do before she went to Sovngarde. But, according to her comrades, even that was off the table. She still felt a little duped; they'd sold her the notion of this transformation so winningly. If she looked deep enough, however, she knew she'd only herself to blame. 

And, while she did complain, she found a strange joy in this new layer of her life. 

Running wild with the true wolves of Skyrim was an unexpected thrill, the creatures welcoming her as a friend before ever considering her an anomaly. In the beginning, she thought it was because her were-form was completely, astonishingly beautiful. 

Her first glimpse, in the still waters of a lake in the middle of the day, had taken her breath away. She was steel gray, powerfully built, with a snowy muzzle that extended to the tips of her fur down her shoulders, across her back to flare bright white at along her tail. In the moonlight, Aela swore up and down that she looked like a comet shooting over the ground. 

The power of the form was intoxicating, twice she'd taken on a whole den of bandits without assistance, raising the collective eyebrows of the Companions. Even Vilkas was impressed, and that man rarely left his brooding funk to do more than bark an order and gesture vaguely. Kodlak's pride was tempered by his disapproval of her acceptance of the blood, but she knew her self-adopted father-figure smiled at her exploits when she wasn't looking. 

 It wasn't all good, however; the flipside to her new found skills was the innate distraction they held. Plans to trek east and up the mountain were pushed aside in favor of romps in the woods, quests with her new 'pack', and the sheer revelry that came with her new form. 

 It was a dragon attack that woke her from her selfish daydream, and Serein was wise enough to heed the sign. 

 It was no great beast, not like her first who bore a name and a history. This blood dragon was a young thing, spitfire and anger but not as challenging as she'd come to expect. Despite this, Whiterun was still terrified, people screaming and running for their homes, shouting prayers and pleas as they went. In the aftermath, covered in dragon blood, her blades dripping with gore, the searing light of the draconic soul inflamed her senses and pored through her nerves like lightning. Her eyes opened to feel the memories of the creature seep into her mind, her neighbors surrounding her with expressions of fear and awe. 

 The very next morning, she was out the gates with her pack on her back and her blades at her hips.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 The road followed the river, clear and uncomplicated. The journey started much the same way, boring and clear and much too quiet for Serein's busy mind. She couldn't stop thinking that she'd tarried in one place for too long, hung back in the comforts of her new family instead of doing what she'd been told the first day she'd killed a dragon and took in its light. 

 It was with some relief when she caught the scent of leather and blades, sweat and unclean human skin. Immediately thoughts went from scattered to quiet calm, her wolf settling her silly human nerves and unsettled draconic fretting from within. In the back of her mind, she wondered if it wasn't getting a little too crowded within. 

  _And how would I go about fixing that, I wonder?_

 Valtheim Towers were at the top of the hill, Serein enough out of the way to go unnoticed as yet. She was downwind, an advantage she'd never have known how to use until now. In her mind, she could see every one of them, seven, bandits fresh from a raid. They still bore scents of blood and fear but not their own of either. One patrolled the bridge, one atop each tower, two within the walls of the tower she slunk quietly towards and two across the river with another outside. 

 For a moment, though, the wind changed direction and she froze, catching a breath of steel and magicka.  _Do the have a mage in their employ? That would change things._

 It was easy enough to slink around the base of the building, to strip down to her skin and stash her gear. 

  _Purging this place of lawless filth will calm me,_ she decided, closing her eyes as she sought out her wolf's blood.  _Two birds, one stone._

 She inhaled. Exhaled. 

 The wolf came forward. 

 

* * *

 

 It took less time than she anticipated, panting hard in her lupine form, regretful of the waste of her transformation. 

  _I could have just as easily killed them one by one._ Her growl was low and irritated.  _I'll not be able to change again 'til  tomorrow, which means no traveling in wolf-form at night for me._

  _That_ made her grumble; she  _adored_  running through the woods at night, it was the fastest form of travel she'd ever encountered. And fun as hell. 

 Her snarls faded to irritated muttering as she let go of the Change, feeling fangs and fur recede as she tossed the bag of loot atop her own stash of gear. A fair bit of coin was to be had from the brigands, it'd be no pinch on her pocket to stay in an inn but there wouldn't be one until Ivarstead. 

  _I'm going to have to_ camp _._

 She had nothing against the practice, truly, but it wasn't her cup of tea when traveling alone. Too many things out there to stumble across her, her sleep was never sound and she always, always wondered what would happen if a dragon found her in such circumstances.

  _The freedoms of wolf-form are piling up,_ she thought ruefully.  _Even if my wild blood keeps my restless some nights._

 The events of the tower had been uneventful. There was no mage, which still confused her a bit (her nose never lied), but there had been a living victim wedged at the base of the far tower, just under the stairs.

 He was smelly and unconscious, and so filthy as to be unrecognizable. Her nose told her he was human, bloody, had been chained to that spot for at least two days, and her ears told her that he was very, very hungry. His true nature was uncertain, and as pressed as she was to continue on her journey, her guilty conscience was assuaged when she broke his bonds and left one of the spare canteens, full, right by his head, as well as a longblade she'd found on one of the bodies. 

 Satisfied she'd done the best she could for the poor stranger, she headed back to her stashed gear.

 It wasn't until she was partially dressed back at the original tower that she caught that original scent of steel and magicka.

  _Is it closer-?_

 The only warning she had was the sound of something heavy moving through the air and then the mace slammed in to her skull.

 She heard a voice mutter, "Profane creature," before her world erupted in pain and darkness. 

 It was hard to see or balance on her own two feet, but she fought as best as she could, unarmored and unarmed. Her Thu'um burst from her;

  _"Fus!"_

 And she saw figures in robes and steel scatter backwards with indignant yells. Confusion still ran nigh as she scrambled to her feet 

  _(...when did I fall again?)_

 -only to fall over when she was shoved aside by a grimy hand. It was a detail she could remember because she stared at its grip on her arm as her world seemed to slow. Magic, or her impending unconsciousness, made everything grind to a halt, the seconds drowning in the air as she stared at dirty fingernails, a ragged sleeve that covered a limb that went up and up and up-

 The longblade she'd left by the prisoner she'd freed glinted in the setting light of the sun, held in a pair of pale hands so sure of themselves it was hard to believe they'd belonged to the person she'd barely glimpsed beneath the chains and the filth. Steel arced and blood glittered like rubies. There were gasps and shouts, a plaintive warble and someone begging for mercy.

 And an eye. Lavender blue and completely hard, peering through ragged hanks of greasy hair and a face scarred with old, parallel lines of wounds that had healed but left their angry mark. 

 Then time resumed. There was heavy breathing, liquid dripping into the dust. Panting. Quiet. 

 Serein closed her eyes. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

An amber glow invaded Serein's darkness, seeped in like warm honey to permeate her bones and muscles. 

She was laying down, she could tell that much. The glow she coveted was from a fire, and she could smell pine and hear the faint snap and hiss of sap-seeping wood. Her wolf's ears caught the sound of breathing, a shuffle and snort beyond the range of late, and the familiar smell of-

"... orc," she murmured. The frown that creased her face made her head hurt, a sharp stab of pain that flared like lightning through her nerves. She couldn't stop the moan that came with it, her attempt to feign sleep broken. 

"She lives," came a familiar voice, a warm, dry hand stroking across her fore-head and down her cheek. "Mm. And your fever has broken, that's good," Durak murmured. 

Her grip was weak but she still managed to catch his wrist, forcing her eyes to open and focus on the face that swam in her vision. "Wh..." she began, but then her tongue turned to ash and refused to work. 

"Here," the silver-haired _Orsimer_ muttered, offering her a cup with his free hand. The scent of water was too much to resist, it could have been poisoned but she still would have drunk it down. When the cup was emptied, he refilled and helped her steady it as she drank again. 

Parched mouth tended too, she sighed, closed her eyes, and tried again. "What... are you doing here?" Her voice croaked and strained from days of disuse, the water aiding some.

"-out for days, it's dumb luck I found you to begin with," Durak was saying. "Stupid woman; five Stendarr bastards at once? Are you insane?"

Stendarr. Ah. "That's who they were," she murmured.

The _Orsimer_ 's body shifted; he was looking at her face, his expression stoic but the lines of his body giving away surprise. She could almost smell it on him. "They caught you unawares, then?" he rumbled. 

"They saw me change," she tried to explain, opening her eyes at last as she struggled to sit up. She managed with his help, thanking any god that would listen for her luck. She might not have been dying, but if his mention of a fever meant what she thought it did, she would have died from an infection before she'd woken on her own. "Where did you find me? At the towers?"

"Aye. I saw a vampire slinking along the river, I thought to climb the road and surprise him from above. Instead, I found a trail of blood and it lead me straight to you. What do you mean by 'change'?" 

She was comfortable, leaning against a large boulder that was padded with folded cloth and a stuffed pack. Her pack. Huh. "Are you going to stab me, just like they did?" she wondered, and then winced. She was worse off than she thought if she couldn't hedge the control between her brain and her flapping mouth. "Dammit, did you drug me?" she groaned, rubbing at her hair and cursing with how greasy it was. She flushed and tried not to look self-conscious; she was a right mess.

"Stop that," Durak chided, pulling her hand away and tugging her braid from around her shoulder. "You've been on your back for the better part of three days, you're not going to look your best." As gruff as his voice was, the tenderness in his words surprised her; she blushed a little harder. "And don't change the subject. I promise not to harm you, woman, you have my word. Now, what have you been up to since last we spoke?"

"The Companions took me in."

Gray eyebrows rose slowly as he stared at her. "Did they now?"

"Indeed."

"And this relates to-"

"Did you know there's a series of tests you have to survive?"

"I'd imagine they don't just let anyone into their ranks."

"They're werewolves."

The old Orc finally blinked. It satisfied something petty in her. Her lips twitched as he stared at her in silence. Then he asked,

"All of them?"

Serein gave a small shrug. "The inner circle is."

"The Vigilants saw you change. That's what you meant."

"The towers were full of bandits. I was trying to be a good citizen of Skyrim." She shrugged again. "And I was hungry."

He blinked at her again.

"I'm joking, Durak."

"Which part?"

 

* * *

 

 

It turned out they weren't too far from the Nightgate Inn. Durak had, in fact, been on his way there when he'd caught sight of the vampire. 

"Saliah is an old friend of the Dawnguard," he explained, helping her mount his stocky horse. "I was tasked with recruiting her for our cause and this was where I was told to search first. She's one of those tinker-folk, picking at the rock and dirt for Dwemer things, trying to make them work again or work for her. Skills like that could be useful. There are a few ruins not far from the inn, I suspect she might be nearby."

"Is this what you do then?" she asked breathlessly, trying not fall off the horse as her vision wavered and her head felt light. "Wander the world in search of-" Her grip failed her and she pitched sideways.

"Hold there, girl!" she heard the _Orsimer_ snap. "If you can't manage a simple ride down the road-"

"We're not camping here again," she grit out around clenched teeth, hauling herself upright, nails digging in to the leather of the saddle to keep herself in place. "Bran is strong and smart," she remarked of the canine that had stood watch for them by night. "But I'll not feel safe until I'm a little stronger. I can't keep keeling over when a butterfly decides to flap a little too hard within a foot of me." Serein, sturdy thing that she'd always been, never took kindly to feeling invalid. It showed in her manner, she was terse and rude and doing her best to not seem completely ungrateful. 

With a grunt, Durak hauled himself up behind her, his thighs against the back of hers as he swept an arm around her middle. "Throw your legs over the side," he instructed, shifting forward as he helped her. Taller than her, longer especially in the torso and broader than a damn ox, the orc dwarfed the _Dovahkiin_. "Right, now lean in to me, and settle your head on my shoulder, there we are. Can you ride like this? You won't fall off, that's for sure."

Tucked in to his shoulder, her legs dangling over the side and her arm around his waist, it was actually quite comfortable. His cloaked covered himself and was easily drawn over her, her own cloak tucked over her lap. His arms settled about her, one holding the reins and the other gripping the saddle-horn, though she noted it strayed now to wrap around her lower back. He was wonderfully warm. 

"It'll do," she mumbled, her brow pressing in to his neck, trying not to squirm. 

At a sedate, smooth walk, they set out north, the morning sun bright across the freshly fallen snow.

Bran trotted by their side, scouting ahead now and then, yipping in warning when something was amiss: bears, wolves, even a pair of Vigilants at one point. All three times, Durak carefully guided his mount to cover, waiting for the danger to pass before continuing on his way again. 

In between these moments of excitement, the two of them talked. 

"Where do you get your coloring?" he'd asked, his free hand wrapping around a thick black curl. "You're not from Skyrim, are you?"

"Mother was a Redguard," she murmured. "Father was a Nord. He was a merchant sailor, he met her on one of his trips. Sang her songs of the snow and ice and she fell in love with all of it." She smiled slowly. "She came with him on his journeys. I was born at sea. We settled in Riften for a time, then to the west and the border towns. I never went farther than Falkreath after that, even after I met my husband."

"You're a half-breed then," he replied with a grunt. He tried to make it sound like an insult but it was completely transparent. 

"Of a sort," she agreed. "And you? Which stronghold do you hail from?"

"Mor Khazgar. Outside of-"

"Solitude. I know it."

He turned to look at her, twitching a steel-colored eyebrow at her.

She gestured weakly with her free hand. "They wouldn't let me in, told me I had to go fetch some missing ridiculous article of clothing. I politely declined, and then they laughed at me."

His laughter was sharp. "Of course they did; you should have told them to kiss your arse."

She sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. " _Orsimer."_

They snacked in the saddle, Serein helpfully feeding him and offering him swigs from the canteen. Afterward, she dozed against him, lulled into sleeping by the steady gait of the horse, Durak's loud, slow heartbeat, and her own body's desperate need to heal. When they finally stopped, the stars were out and the moons were high in the sky. 

Blearily, she heard soft words exchanged and the sound of coins traded. The horse was lead into a stable, the lights low and the sounds muffled by hay. It smelled of clean animal and well-cared for bedding; this was a good place to stay. 

With some coaxing, Durak managed to get Serein down from the horse and in to his arms, and it was a testament to how tired she was that she didn't fight him as he carried her in to the inn. Their bags were brought in by the young porter, rooms paid for and shown to them in short order. 

"I will pay you back for this," she mumbled at him when he set her on the bed. "You'll have to come with me to Whiterun but-"

He smirked at her as he went about undressing her, jerking his head at the bath being filled in the corner of their room. "You did the same for me, once. I can return the favor."

He worked off her boots and helped her with her trousers and shirt, agreeing with her about her smell and vowing to help her wash just so he could get a good night's sleep (she was sure to smack him for this with her boot). Leaving on her smalls and the band of fabric wrapped around her chest, he lifted her in to the warm bath with little difficulty. He handed her soap, comb, and washing cloth, making sure she was settled before straightening.

"I'm going to work on finding food for us. You work on smelling better, I'll help you when I get back. Aye?"

She sighed, sinking in to the tub a little further. "Aye."

 


	8. Chapter 8

By the time Durak returned, Serein had washed her underthings and had set them aside to dry later. She was naked, clean from hair to toes, nose dipping in the bathwater as she dozed in the tub. 

Her inner wolf alerted her to the presence of another, her nose telling her who it was and quickly shutting down any kind of alarm. Instead, her eyes bleary and tired, she looked up at him to find him standing next to the tub, openly oggling her while he held up a towel. She rolled her eyes at him but smiled. He gave her a wink and his gaze became more clinical, but only a little.

Yawning, she stood without a word and squeezed the excess from her thick, long hair, pinning it to her head before she let herself be helped from the tub and wrapped. The orc said nothing as he rubbed the fabric against her skin. She saw a tray of food on the bed, a few tankards on the bedside table. He offered her the sleeping tunic and her comb from her pack, turning his back to fuss over the food while she dressed, even going so far as to hang her wet, clean clothes on the rack by the fire. 

Soon enough, she was fed and full, wet, combed hair drying into lazy curls, her feet warm and her body comfortable on the bed that seemed to be made entirely of pillows. She hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep until the orc was tugging her ale from her hand and shifting her under the blankets. 

"Why are you being so kind to me?" she murmured when he finally stripped to loose pants and climbed under the blankets, wrapping his arms around her to drag her close, smiling when she squeaked in surprise. "Ooooh. Is that why?" she teased, humor coloring her words even as sleep threatened to drown her. "I'm to be your bed-warmer in payment?"

"Shut up, wench," he replied gruffly. "Your wounds are healed, your body is recovering, and you're safe. Now shut up and let me sleep, for Malacath's sake. Taking care of you in between everything else has made rest hard to come by."

He groused over her continued giggling, eventually stuffing her face in to his neck in a futile attempt to silence her. Eventually, though, they both relaxed. He hadn't been lying, he was exhausted, his breath deepening in to slumber within moments. Serein took a bit longer, her mind running through her memories of the attack at the towers. 

 _I should be dead_ , she concluded.  _If it hadn't been for Durak, why-_

She stopped, frowning. That wasn't right. He hadn't been there. No, he'd said he'd followed something else and had  _found_ her. 

_A vampire. But was it really a vampire?_

The image of a blue eye had her own eyes snapping open in startled memory. She would have sat up if she hadn't been so entangled in softly-snoring orc. 

 _There_ had _been someone else. There was- ...dammit. I can't remember._ Frowning, eyes flicking back and forth as she struggled access memory made fogging by blunt force trauma, her heart called to the wolf inside her. Her fickle human memory was blurry, but the nose of her wolf was another thing all together.

_Blood. There had been blood and unwashed skin. Foul and unkempt from days and days of abuse. Old blood, and a stomach that warbled with constant hunger. Parched skin and steel..._

She gasped as the scene came rushing back. The prisoner! The one she'd thought dead at the base of the tower, stinking of rotting blood with flies buzzing about. She'd broken his bonds, given him a sword and a canteen. Her brow furrowed at the memory; he'd been so limp as to be unconscious when she found him, with long limbs and nothing but skin and bones. Even with as fuzzy as the image was, she recalled him to be the fighter that had saved her, light glinting on long-bladed steel that sliced through air and flesh alike. 

_But if he'd managed to keep them from killing me ... where is he now?_

 

* * *

 

 The blood sickness had taken more out of her than Serein wanted to admit, and it was a pouting Dovahkiin that the orc had to leave the next day. He said he'd found the woman he was looking for but he had to help her finish a few projects before she'd accompany him back to the fort. 

"Bloody collection quests," he'd grumbled as he'd dressed the next day.

Her lips quirked, pout forgotten for a moment. "What was that?"

He grunted. "Nothing."

Between the two of them, they'd had enough money to restock and have food for her to eat while she recovered, and recovery was what he ordered. 

"I'll be back this night and then in the morning we can head out together. Ivarstead, yes?" At her nod, he grunted again. "That's not out of my way. I can travel with you at the very least, and if I don't convince you to join us then, maybe I can convince you to join us later."

Her eyes rolled but she didn't argue; she was becoming quite fond of the old man. 

Dressed, armored, and armed, he settled his cloak about his shoulders and grabbed his pack. Without even pausing, he leaned over the bed and... planted a soft, intimate kiss on Serein's parted lips. 

In the instant after it happened, she knew he'd done it automatically and realized in the same moment that he'd just understood what he'd done too. Slate cheeks flushed dark as he withdrew, embarrassment written all over his face as he reeled back, awkwardly pulling at his leather jerkin and re-checking his various buckles and weapons. After several long moments, he cleared his throat and tried to look at her, mouth working soundlessly as he struggled over what to say. 

She reached out to touch the back of his hand, a rueful smile on her face. "Habits die hard, Durak," she said quietly. She remembered. She understood. 

His expression was grateful and he gave a nod, turning his hand to grip her own, drawing her knuckles to his tusk-endowed lips. 

Serein watched him leave.  _Fond indeed,_ she thought. Kindred spirits, maybe. "Safe journey," she murmured, her fingers brushing her amulet, sending a fleeting prayer to Kynareth just in case. 

The innkeeper was given instructions not to let her leave apparently, something made known to her the moment she went looking for her cloak. Kindly but firmly, he brought her to a chair and table tucked close to the fire, laden with stew, bread, and mulled wine. He ignored her protests, brought her her pack, and told her in no uncertain terms that he would lock her in her room if she did not rest. 

It was just as well; she did need the rest. The hike up to the Throat of the World would be tiring as it was without the lingering effects of blood fever.

So it was that she sat and ate, sipped her wine, stayed warm, and fiddled with the journal she dragged around with her. it was full of snippets of thought, drawings from life and imagination. There was a sketch of Kodlak in here, and one of Lydia when the woman was dozing in Breezehome. With a sharpened bit of charcoal, she let her mind wander as she drew on a blank page, frowning with the memory of pale blue eyes and greasy black hair, long limbs and a blade that cut through the air about her. 

 _Not at me_ , she thought.  _Around me._

She leaned back to look at what she'd drawn. It wasn't much, the hint of blue in a bloodshot eye, dark hair falling in hanks and dreads to obscure a face of pale skin and pink scars. He did have a long nose, it was crooked like it'd been broken at least twice, peeking out of the greasy tresses. There was a hint of a mouth, the overall expression grim and desperate. 

Serein frowned; he hadn't said a word. 

"Huh. That looks like the vampire I followed."

She smiled, quirking an eyebrow without looking at the _Orsimer_ , charcoal flicking idly between her fingers. "He wasn't a vampire, if that's the fellow you were chasing. Living, breathing, mortal as you."

Durak removed his cloak before sitting down, laying it on the stones of the hearth to dry. "How do you know?"

She tapped her nose, feeling her face wrinkle at her wry expression. "The wolf got a full whiff. Twice." She turned the portrait around to look at again, darkening some of the hair, outlining the iris of the eye. "I found him shackled and beaten at the bottom of one of the towers, dirty for days, reeking of old blood. I thought at first he was dead but he made a sound. I left him water and a sword." Her eyes flicked up to the Orc, the woman shifting in her seat. "I know it was foolish. He could have been anyone. When I was poking about, the Vigilants got the jump on me. I think I may have smelled them earlier but I thought it was a mage I was scenting. I was arrogant. I should have been more careful."

She fiddled with the paper. "This fellow came out of no where, when I was on my knees and bleeding from a cracked skull."

 

A grunt from the Orc. "He saved your life, then, as much as I did." 

 

"Very likely."

 

The conversation turned to more immediate things, like the success of his recruitment and the journey before them to Ivarstead. It was decided she'd be good enough to travel in two days, not just the one, and it was a testament to how poorly she'd felt that she didn't argue. What was one more day to the Greybeards?

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

The second night at the inn was a little different than the one before. More mobile, less exhausted, it shouldn't have surprised either of them that their mutual attraction would finally come to a head. 

His hands were on her hips the moment he climbed into bed and the covers were pulled over them, dragging her over to face him as she planted her hands against his chest, trying to find his eyes and see if this was something he really wanted. Bodily needs were one thing, but having your head involved with it was important with Serein. She didn't want to be a charity case or used as a convenient hole. 

She learned soon enough she shouldn't have worried; his hands, calloused and rough, passed over her bare curves under her sleeping tunic, tugging her closer to him the longer she let him. His mouth, tusked and a little unusual, skimmed across her neck with kisses a little rough to be called loving but definitely more intimate than one might expect from an Orc. 

Serein appreciated that he didn't fuss over her, didn't ask her a hundred questions about what she'd like from him. It was simple instinct, how his touch wandered up her thighs and the soft flesh of her stomach, up to reverently cup her breasts as he kissed her mouth. The slow intentions were having the desired effect, the plush woman squirming against the mattress and panting into his lips by the time he began unbuttoning her shirt. Her hands closed around his wrists, stalling him, forcing him to look at her.

"Why?" she murmured, wanting to hear him say it.

He went still, looking at her, though the moment of consideration didn't dull his interest in her; she could feel him hard and throbbing through his loose slumber-pants, pressing against her hip. Buttons continue to be undone, slower this time, as he took his time to answer her. 

"You are a fine woman," he said softly, his tone begrudging and amused. "Honor, integrity..." Her shirt was open now, he pushed it back to her shoulders but not off, looking down the front of her, the softness of her shape, her honey-colored skin, and the dark curls that covered her mons. "You are softness over power... an intriguing mix. Who would not want such a woman?" If an Orc could purr, he did so now, a low grumble, the vibration of which he pressed into her neck, tugging at her shirt to reveal more of her skin. 

It was difficult to take their time, to be gentle, and after about the fifth bruising grip (her dimpled thighs) and clawed lines (his flesh, not hers), it was wordlessly decided that they could both stop holding back. Her shirt was yanked off and she was roughly rolled to her belly, her hips gripped and lifted, thighs nudged wide even as she spread her knees. Thick, calloused Orsimer fingers remained gentle, however, when he pressed them along the cleft of her ass, other hand planted at the base of her spine, his thumb pressing against the small of her back. Her ass hitched backwards and she pressed her cheek to the rumpled blankets, gasping as he slid first one digit along her seeping sex, and then in as far as he could. Two strokes, slow, crooked finger, and Serein is whining into the bedding, clutching at the blankets under her cheek. 

His low chuckle made her blush, and just as she managed to glare at him over her shoulder, she met his smirk with a look of startled pleasure as he added a finger to her cunt, and then a thumb into the tight pucker of her ass, that hand splaying across the base of spine. 

Pitching forward, shaking, caught between the thrusting, pumping digits of one hand and the thick, solid shape of his other thumb delving into her ass, the woman groaned his name. 

The smile on his lips melted into a smoldering frown of concentration, curling his thumb and gripping her flesh, his other hand tensing to thrust, hard, with another finger. Slow, firm, she crumpled underneath his focused attentions, crying out with every pump, body jostled, breasts and softness bouncing with the power of his arm. He didn't cease his pressure or pace as she came, whimpering, sex clenching to squeeze and flutter, over and over. When he finally withdrew, she went limp, breathing hard and trembling, hair tangled around her head, skin flushed and damp.

He was moving her, rolling her to her back. Her hands flailed out, the woman dazed, eyes closed, but recognizing his shoulders under her palms as he slid up the length of her. Tusked kisses brushed up her neck, firming up more and more until he bit her, making her tense and cry out. His hips, bare and hot, nestled between her soft thighs, the velvet rigidness of his erection pressing tight and close but not yet entering. Rubbing himself shamelessly against her, he growled into her ear. 

"I'll not rut you like a beast," he breathed. "Though you are beautiful from every angle, I want to see your face-"

He shifted against her, his hand between their bodies, lining himself to her entrance. Her knees lifted to spread around his hips, her breath caught as she felt him push-

"-when I take you," he finished with a ragged groan, hilting quickly, deeply, Serein crying out as she felt the exquisite burn of flesh forced to accommodate too soon. 

Their panting echoed in the stillness of adjustment, he to the tightness of her and she to the throbbing girth of him. Somehow, their eyes remained open, looking at each other, his wandering the path of her features and she gazing into his eyes. Unexpectedly, he rocked his hips back before rolling them forward, smiling breathlessly when her face contorted with pleasure and she gasped. He repeated the motion, pulling back, thick cock stroking across blazing nerves, only to slide forward and split her wide and deep. 

He managed a firm, slow pace for as long as he could, panting above her, watching her fall apart over and over again, hissing when she clenched up tight to flutter velvet, wet muscles around his driving cock. With every release, she got that much tighter, and soon he was gritting his teeth with the increasing effort it took to slide into her.

He sat up abruptly, caught her hips to keep himself wedged into her, spread his knees and sat her plush ass atop his thighs. From this angle, he could watch himself slide into her, use gravity to his advantage and plow hard, deep. 

Serein lost count of how long and how much, but she wasn't ashamed to sub in gratitude when he finally began to grunt, squeezing her hips, pumping faster, shallower, until-

His hand clamped down on her mouth to smother her shout, hips bucking sporadically, hard, as he filled her with his seed. 

Divine exhaustion followed. 

The blissful after-glow had them both relaxed, calm, limbs loose and tangled in each other, her cheek on his chest, his hand brushing up and down the skin of her back. Serein felt herself drifting, content, accepted. This was an oasis in the field of turmoil. She would not forget this peace soon. 

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Dawn was coming, and with it Serein, stepping from the shadows of the cave she'd spent the night in.

Rosy light brushed bare skin, filthy with dirt, blood, and other things. She hefted a large sack over her shoulder, breasts, belly, thighs jiggling as she walked to the alcove and its hidden barrel. The sack was dumped of its contents in her shelter, and she sat on the burlap, still nude, to shift through the spoils. 

It had been half a year since that night with her Orsimer. She was not as bright and cheery as she was then, healing from fever and fatigue, at the beginning of something loving and wonderful. 

After several minutes of sifting, she stood with a grunt and popped open the barrel, retrieving her armor and weapons and donning them quickly before hefting her supplies.

She was a little more worn looking, as her slumber was never restful and it often took a bottle of wine or two before she could sleep without dreams. Her hair, the long, beautiful waves she coveted, had been transformed into tight, practical dreadlocks. Her body still plush, it gave her the look of a mystic, her far-off expression mixed with the stride of the Dragonborn. Not that she cared. She cared about very little these days. 

Hefting her pack over her shoulder, bag of spoils in her other hand, she ignored the now  common sound of footsteps about her, a wolfpack forming about her as she moved up the hill to the road. It never failed, the three nights of the full moon had her surrounded by wolves the moment the the celestial masses rose, and every time she shifted throughout the month, they either hunted with her or waited not far away until she was done with her business and back in her lupine skin. The tracked her and flanked her, their pups often wrestling under her feet. What had at first spooked her now only slightly annoyed her, and the rest of the time, well...

When she got to the road, a sharp mouth closed around her unarmored wrist. There was little pressure that hurt, enough to gain her attention respectfully. She looked down at the great gray wolf, though he was only shorter than her by a head. With a sigh, she leaned down and bit the top of his nose, letting him lick at her face and mouth until his tail thumped the air and the other wolves shifted excitedly. She dug into her bag of spoils and withdrew several rashers of salted bacon, dumping it out on the ground and stepping hastily away as her wolves swept in to claim their treat. 

It was the closest she ever came to smiling nowadays. 

 

* * *

 

Telling your lover you're a werewolf and having him accept it is apparently different than shifting in front of him, even if it was to save his ungrateful ass.

Quite literally, the pair had stumbled into a vampire lair on the verge of swarming. At least, that's what Serein called it, though the association with bees didn't sit well with her. A vampire nest had grown so big from violence and death that it had no choice to split, sending a good half of their number to some other dwelling, be it cave or abandoned ruins, to begin again with whatever it was they did. 

Durak had been tracking this nest for months, had grumbled about how many had fallen to the senseless violence that plagued the locals in the night. With each victim, the nest had grown, and unlike some of the more subdued, 'harmless' vampire families, this one had no such restraint. Through the snows and the forest, they'd finally come to a burnt, aged husk of a castle, the roof caved in, walls crumbling. But even Serein could smell the distinctive reek of decaying blood, wrinkling her nose as they entered the ruins. 

The ground was solid, or seemed to be, but one wrong placement and the much heavier Orsimer cracked a board, yelped, and fell into the darkness below. 

He had shouted for her to flee, barked out the word 'Swarm!' and she heard the hiss of dozens of vampires. 

It was too close to the full moon for her to resist the call to protect that rose in her blood, the need to fight for her mate an instinct so primal to her inner wolf that she couldn't ignore it. 

And so, with the snap of morphing bones and shifting muscle, the growl of Serein's primal self peeling from lips that lengthened around sharpening teeth, the woman gave in to the demands of her nature.

With a shower of splintering wood, she jumped below to circle Durak, his leg broken, his blade and crossbow firing into the darkness. The silver of her pelt seemed to glow as she stalked protectively around him, waiting for the attack of the many night-lovers and blood-suckers that hesitated at her peripheral. Lupine eyes pierced the darkness and, with deadly grace, she met the first rush of the vampires with a roar of defiance. 

It was a messy fight, limbs torn off and thrown clear, blood spraying, heads dismembered and bouncing off the far cavern walls. When it was over, and it was over quickly, all that was left was a ground bathed in blood, bodies and parts piled like firewood and scattered, and a bloodstained wolf panting raggedly still between her Orsimer and the last of the twitching foe. 

When she turned to assess him, a wolf's grin on her face, triumphant, ears perked and tail wagging, the latter flagged quickly to see the look on his face. 

Horror, disgust, gaping teeth as Durak stared at her. The confusion that rushed through her was enough to release the wolf's hold on her, she dropped to her knees, bones shrinking, fur gone, the woman still covered in blood. Naked, one hand braced against the ground to steady herself, she looked up at him, the change dropping her to her shorter height.

"...are you alright?" she asked, her voice hoarse with her snarling, even in wolf form. He continued to stare at her, agape, eyes wide and pupils contracted, and when she moved to reach for him he flinched. Her eyes darted to her blood-coated hand. "Durak?" she asked, watching as he struggled to rise. 

Quickly, she moved to brace his arm over her shoulder and he stiffened, made to pull away and he probably would have if he had a choice. As it was, he didn't, so he let her help him limp through the cavern and into the dungeon, the floors above crumbling to reveal light and fresh air. On the surface, Serein went to her pile of gear and clothes, wincing at the mess on her skin. She was going to need a bath before she put any of this on. Rolling in the snow, while usually comical, had her teeth chattering in no time but it was with a better head that she pulled on her leathers and cottons and thick, wool coat. 

Durak's horse was coaxed from where it had run, and with a strength that still brought a surprised grunt to the Orsimer's lips, she helped him mount. Thankfully, the beast was used to the smell of vampire blood and didn't shy away when Serein jumped up behind him. Her arm went around his middle as she leaned forward to guide the reins, but again, he stiffened and snarled at her, more fear and anger in the orc than she had ever seen. Contrite, confused, she withdrew her touch and gripped the back of her saddle as he led them away from the decimated nest. 

It was some hours and near nightfall when they made it to Windhelm, Durak's leg mostly healed thanks to her insistence that he take the last potion they had, arguing that they could restock in the city. He still limped through Candlehearth however, slammed coin on the table and took his key with a snarl. Serein, still not sure what that was all about, inquired for a copy from the innkeeper, as she and the orc always roomed together. 

"He said not to," the young woman told Serein meekly, her brow pinching. The plump, short Dragonborn was stunned. They'd been together for months, it was almost ritual now to room together, bathe, eat, laugh, fuck, and pass out in each other's arms only to wake with smiles and warmth and teasing laughter in the morning. 

So she rented her own room across from his. Knocking at his door later, her hair still damp from her bath, she quietly called his name. Silence met her. She knocked again. The door cracked open and one gleaming Orsimer eye peered at her. Her brow furrowed even further.

"Durak. What gives?" she asked him. "Are you injured more than the leg? Can I hel-"

"I'm fine, wench. Go. I need..." his voice began, words rough and almost pained. "...just go. I'll see you on the morrow." And with no other explanation, the door was shut and that was that.

The next morning, his door was open and his room empty. The innkeeper that morning had a letter addressed to her.

 _"I have no love for vampires,"_ it read.  _"-and yet the savagery I saw in you was ill met by the widower in me, who saw my wives torn apart by the same creatures you slew. While I know the Dawnguard can use you, I ask that you not join for the moment. Await a summons from the head of our organization."_

She recognized the handwriting even if he left no signature. His explanation was vague and insulting in its brevity. Still, she thanked the innkeeper, returned to her rooms for an hour, then came out with a sack full of coins. After a bit of haggling and some papers to sign, she had rented that one room for one year, had all the keys of the chests within in her possession as a thong around her neck. That night she stripped herself of her clothes and ran with the wolves. 

Every new moon she came back to Windhelm to sell her wares, added to the growing pile of coins, stripped in the night and ran back out again. Aimless, her work, and she didn't care for a long while about the dragons that swooped or the vampires that stalked in the night. Not wanting to cut her hair but growling at how it got everywhere, she began to twist them into neat, tiny dreads, repeating the process at the roots as her tresses grew. Clothing was only needed when she was stopping in town, and even when it came to food she preferred the hot, soft meat of grass-eating pray shared with others like her.

The wound of Durak's abandonment hit her far deeper than she could have foreseen and it was many, many, many long months before she did anything but hunt and howl with her wolves.

 


	11. Chapter 11

News about the dragons flying rampant through the country was met by apathy in Serein. Even after her first encounter so long ago (only a year?) when she wept in the euphoria of the dragon's soul, she was never inclined to hunt them. It wasn't just that they were beautiful, it was that they were a part of her. She knew the name of every soul that swam in her depths, she felt the constant pull to High Hrothgar, the call in her bones that told her to Go There. 

And yet she resisted. She resisted fiercely, letting her wolf claim the strength she needed, harnessed it to ignore the call and the cries from those the dragons attacked. Staying 'wolf' and only coming back to civilization when she needed to limited her exposure, a choice she made and accepted the consequences for. 

So it wasn't the screams of the victims that pulled her from her self-indulgent depression, the unexpectedly deep blow of Durak's rejection. It wasn't even the violence of the civil war tearing apart the country-side. Nothing could wake her to the compassion she'd had before, the turmoil in the _Dovahkiin_ going far deeper than spurned affections, festered under the surface of superficial ideals.

It was debt she'd left unpaid, a debt she'd forgotten she'd owed. 

She was back in Windhelm. The new moon had come upon her and she took those days to take a bath, eat human food, and pay her rent at the local inn with money from the items she collected from her forays through bandit camps and Forsworn caverns. She was rich now, the majority of her funding hidden away in a vault in Markarth, with a small trove kept on her person to pay for her human needs. It was never a question that her return to the human world be temporary; it always was. She sent a note to Lydia every season, Lydia in turn would have a message waiting the next new moon, asking her Thane where she was, why she was gone, and so on. Once, the idiot actually tried to find her but alas. Serein was too good with her nose and stayed away until Lydia gave up. 

The booze and the antics as a werewolf were thinning Serein out. She didn't like it. The wind effected her more, the ice and snow  too close through her leathers when she stomped around on two feet. Layer upon layer, sometimes it felt she couldn't stay warm outside of the inn, and what clothing she'd kept she had to belt in place more than once. She craved her fur and some months, she barely waited longer than the single day before discarding her humanity and running through the wilds again. It was simpler, more satisfying. At least, that's what she told herself. 

At the moment, she sat in Candlehearth at her usual table, fresh from a bath, her skin pink from the scrubbing. Her long, thin braids were plentiful, tied back to sweep down her back in a waterfall of rippling sable. Her meal half eaten before her, she tapped at the tabletop with a short-nailed finger, musing over the current state of things. She'd heard, again, of dragons to the south, an old burial mound raked up and ruptured, killing farmers, children, a caravan. Her guilt pricked at her and she didn't like it.

She could feel the stirring of her old self, the woman with the soul of a dragon, and the wolf-self did not like that either. It was complicated, that old creature, the motherly woman who knew the names of dragons she'd never met, taken down by an abrupt, unexpected rejection that shouldn't have wounded her as deeply as it had. She bared her teeth in frustration, a snarl from her throat all too lupine for the likes of a mortal woman. Several folk at a nearby table twitched in their seats to stare at her; she ignored them, especially as they left not long after. 

As if on cue, the call of the Ancient Men at the Throat of the World sang through her; her eyes shut to feel the reverberation of the Voices, the croon of resonating summons that only she could sense. The dragon under her skin began to stir.  _It's time,_ it whispered. 

 _No,_ said the wolf beside her, snapping her jaws at the darkness that cradled the Dragonborn's soul.  _No, run, run and play and feast, kill, sleep, howl. No dragons in that. No war, no fighting, no devouring souls._

That and the will of Serein herself pushed the dragon within back into its hiding space, and she opened her eyes to stare at the snow falling outside through the window. She smiled and it was one without humor. It would all stay unchanged, World-Eater be damned. 

 

* * *

 

She paid her tab at the inn, set up another month of rent and packed up what she'd need to get out into the wilds. Perhaps she'd head to the west this time, play with the spriggans and let them chase her through a village or two. That would be fun.

As she walked out into the snowy, cold morning, there was a crowd gathered at the steps before the palace courtyard. Shouting, a man read the crimes of another, the criminal's face obscured on the executioner's block. Serein winced, pausing on the steps of Candlehearth, looking over as she adjusted the leather buckles to tighten the straps of her pack. From what she could hear, the man was a thief, but that alone wouldn't have warranted the axe. Frowning, Serein felt her curiosity get the better of her, drawn to the mystery. 

The smell assailed her first; her sensitive nose making her grimace at the filthy man curled over the stained beheading stone, his shoulders shaking, his arms shackled to the rock under his knees. He was thin, too thin, her eyes took in the rags on his form, the bony elbows, the raw knuckles. With the scent of him, the wolf in her stirred, brought memories to bare that were covered in the dust of apathy. Her frown deepened as she struggled to understand what it was that was so familiar. 

The list of crimes was coming to a close, and finally, Serein understood why thievery was to be the end of this poor bastard; he'd stolen a message from the Stormcloaks in an attempt to give it to the Imperials. Or, that was the guess; apparently the sod had actually confessed it. 

He was pronounced guilty; the wretched beast moaned in fear, lifted his head to gaze up at the crowd with a pleading expression-

-and Serein froze. 

The bandit towers. 

In a rush, she recalled that same indigo blue eye, the scars across angled cheekbones framed by greasy hair, the smell of magic and her death at hand, an amulet of Stendarr swinging as a mighty mace attempted to brain her for being  _other_ , the voice of disgust silenced as clean steel speared through the throat that condemned her. This was the man at the bottom of the tower, the one who reeked of filth and starvation, beaten and abused. She'd left a waterskin and a blade at his side, and he had  _saved_ her.

 _It's_ him,she thought, her feet carrying her through the crowd, pushing at people to create a path. She didn't stop until she was climbing the executioner's stand, her eyes locked on the poor man kneeling and bound. Her gold eyes gleamed as she stared at the litigator, his babble of indignant questions ignored as her hand fumbled for the satchel of coin tucked under her coat.

"This man owes me a life debt," she growled. "Sell him to me."

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT HAPPENED OMFG  
> Ok so. While writing this, a lot of shit went down in my actual life, and the result of that was a break up, grief, loss, and all kinds of emotional nonsense that taught me great things about myself while kicking me in the ass.  
> So as therapy, I rewrote the story in my head. It's shifting, ongoing, but it's heading in a different direction than I'd planned, with a new original character and a lot of time/quest/lore bending.  
> I hope no one minds too much.

Her savior didn't speak; he was too busy eating, so it was just as well. She left him in her room at the inn and made to sign the papers putting him in her custody, dropping the price she was asked for in septims on the constable's desk. That she didn't even blink earned her a look of shock, but it was the man that came in behind her that had the officiator scrambling to stand. 

Ulfric Stormcloak was an asshole, and the only other man in the city that truly knew who she was. For months, Serein had avoided him; the last time she'd run into him after Shouting a bear to death on the steps of the bridge to Windhelm, he'd all but hauled her to his palace for dinner and a suit for her hand. She'd refused. He looked insulted after the stunned expression wore off. How would anyone possibly turn down the self-imposed king of Skyrim?

Serein _Dovahkiin_ , obviously.

It didn't matter what he did, she had no one for him to leverage, nothing to offer her that she wanted. It flabbergasted him, a person who had no wish to be bought and craved the one thing he would most definitely take from her: her freedom. 

Whenever she made waves in the city, he was the first to turn up, and this time was no exception. 

The prisoner's paperwork in hand, she glanced up briefly to note the 'king' and his presence, giving a faint nod and nothing more. His large hand closed on her shoulder, stopping her, and she glared at it until he released her. 

"What business have you with this Imperial spy?" he rumbled down at her.

Serein squinted up at him, seriously considering 'fuck off' as an answer. But, she had manners. 

"He owes me a debt. I mean to collect it in the form of service," was her clipped response.

"A debt?"

"I saved his life," she lied smoothly. Well, a little. It was kind of true. 

"Oh? And how did this happen? To be at the mercy of the  _Dovahdiin_ is quite a gift any man would crave."

Serein bared her teeth at him for the title and its misuse, though knowing him, perhaps it was on purpose. "I saved him from being brained by the Vigilants of Stendarr," she snarled at him, the sound so antagonistic and angry in nature that even he flinched. "Now, let me pass. I've an appointment to keep."

The barracks were one of the better insulated buildings in Windhelm, the opposite side of the Gray quarter and made with an outer shell of granite. She tugged up her hood as the snow continued to fall, stepping out into the streets as the sun darkened in the sky; so much for departing today. She took two steps before there was a hand on her arm again and this time, she spun and shoved it off of her. 

"Do not touch me," she said to Ulfric, readjusting her pack. "You act too familiar,  _sir_ , and I've told you before: I am  _not_ interested."

His expression turned thunderous, his mouth pulled down in an angry frown as he regarded her with ire and frustration. "You are a fool, woman," he growled at her. "No one would turn down such an offer, you should be flattered that I seek your hand."

"I am not," she snapped. "You don't want me, Serein _Dovahkiin_. You want the Dragonborn, the blessed of Kynareth, to parade on your arm and show off to your enemies, to show them what it means to leash a _dovah_. I will not be yours, sir, not in a thousand years." She moved to turn away and again, his fucking hand closed around her shoulder and this time, he yanked her towards him.

"See here, you bitch-" left his throat in a snarl, one that was met with hers and a resounding, well aimed  _Fus!_

Watching him pitch off his feet and fly backwards into the barracks wall was incredibly satisfying. Too satisfying. So much so that Serein dared to laugh. 

Guards came pouring in, moving to the side of their king and glaring at Serein. She who laughed at the man with a foot or more on her, who couldn't take no for an answer and threw tantrums when he didn't get his way. As Ulfric seethed, shoving away those that sought to help him up (typical), she turned about and headed back to the inn. Leaving sooner than later seemed the better option now. 

The Stranger, as she was coming to think of him, had finished his food, emptied the waterskin, and was passed out on her bed. He was still filthy and she knew he was weak, but they needed to get out of Windhelm before Ulfric decided he'd had enough of her poor reception. 

"Hey," she said, quietly, tugging on the ragged edge of his collar. At least, she assumed it was a collar. It could have been a poorly mended scarf for all she could tell and her wolf-self was hiding her nose to save herself from the stench of the man. "I hate to do this to you, but-" she began, only to jump back and  _bark_ in surprise.

Bark. Shit. She'd been going Wolf for too long. 

The Stranger jumped to his feet, tense, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there, a sword by the way he made to grab over his shoulder, lanky, chest-length hair swinging around him in greasy strands. His eyes were wide, pupils retracted to points, and his breathing was shallow, efficient as his movements as he stalked in a tight circle. Whipping his head back around to stare at her, he looked her up and down, confused for a heartbeat before remembering. The tension eased from his shoulders, indigo eyes in his dirty, scarred face darkening as he took in his surroundings. Then he stood, patient, waiting.

Right. Serein cleared her throat. "We need to go. Have you any gear we need to pick up? I've some clothes for you, a coat and a cloak, boots, so you don't freeze to death once we leave the city. But we do need to get out of here. As in, now."

He waited, weary eyes on her.

She sighed and tugged on a shock of tiny braids. "I ... insulted the 'king'. Ulfric. You know, the Alpha Stormcloak?" Her lips twisted at her own little choke, before smiling as the tall, lanky man gave a soft guffaw. "Well, at least someone around here gets my sense of humor."

He had nothing. She asked him repeatedly if he had any belongings and he just stood there, melancholy. Serein decided this was well enough for now; they could get him a weapon from any of the smiths on the way to Riften, and barring that, she had a few weapons for him to choose from at Honeyside. She grimaced at the idea of putting clean, new clothes on his dirty frame but they couldn't wait; her instincts told her she was going to be in shit for shoving at Ulfric and while normally, she didn't care? She had someone else to take care of now and he didn't deserve to get dragged into her mess. Doing that to someone, again, made her poor mortal heart squeeze painfully. 

It was snowing in earnest when they crossed the bridge to the stables, Serein turning in the chits for the steeds she'd purchased that morning while the Stranger slept. Serein was given a pale mare the color of fog against the snow, and the Stranger was given a gelding of a soft, light gray; perfect snow mounts that they could keep or trade later.

For a moment, she was worried her companion wouldn't keep a good seat but he had no problem staying in the saddle, even if mounting took effort for him. He was so thin, his cloak and coat of heavy furs almost burdensome for him. But he didn't complain. He didn't say a word, actually, hadn't since she'd met him, but reading body language was easier for her now, and as far as she could tell the man was content. 

Kynesgrove was a day to the south. She had contacts there, knew the innkeeper and was in good standing with them. Staying the night there, getting them a pair of baths, that would do the trick, and it was far enough away from Windhelm that Ulfric, unless he wanted to appear petty as fuck, wouldn't chase after her. 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm bending the timeframes and the questlines but I hope it's for good reasons.

The Stranger was quiet the whole way to Kynesgrove. 

Serein actually appreciated this; talking these days wore her out, the solitude she enjoyed as a youth and a widow a source of comfort these days. Most of her social needs were met by her pack in the woods and the others like her, though she didn't know their mortal names. Talking to people took effort and time, she had to use words instead of relying on her posture to do most of the speaking for her. So while his silence would have unnerved some, to her she found it a boon. 

That being said ... she didn't know what to do with the man who'd saved her life. She only knew she couldn't let him die under the ax, not without trying to repay him for his kindness.

She stole glances at him now and then, taking in the matted hair, the scars that peeked through the ragged curtain. His face was shadowed from being unshaven, his eyes haunted, unseeing as they rode. His shoulders were hunched, hiding the full extent of his frame even when he stood, near stooped when she'd taken him to the inn in the city. She knew better, however; the scent of him came through the layers of grime and she knew who he was. 

Dusk was falling when they came to Kynesgrove, the little town bustling with lights and activity as the people ceased their work for the day. The Braidwood Inn seemed rather busy, but Serein was pleased to note there were still rooms available, observed when they entered the inn. 

Well. Sort of available. 

"Why does this always happen to me?" she grumbled as she entered the room she was to  _share_ with the stranger. Iddra the Innkeeper was kind enough to have another bed brought in, making the room cramped but more comfortable in its way. Her quiet companion looked at both beds, tested the mattresses while she stared at him; this was the most involved he'd been since she met him, and she was amused to note that he took the bed with less bounce to it. 

"I can sleep outside just as comfortably," she chuckled, the sound almost foreign to her, coughing a bit afterwards. "Don't fuss over me."

He simply looked at her, peered at her with those indigo eyes. Her laughter stalled and her smile faded. When he'd made his point ("No, I'm sleeping in this bed, get the fuck over it") without saying a word, he looked away and began to take off his new clothes. 

"Ah ah," she said quickly, stalling him with a hand on his shoulder. He tensed and glared up at her. 

_Boy, do I know how you feel._

"I paid for a bath. There's a public one at the bottom of the inn. You don't need to cut your hair or shave your face, but for the love of Kynareth, please? Use some soap. A lot of soap." She handed him said article, the milky, pale-green bar smelling of pine and lemon. "There's towels in there as well. Grab yourself food on your way back."

She let him go and moved to the door, stopped by the hand on her shoulder, the Stranger suddenly standing and right behind her. His eyes conveyed concern. 

Shaking her head, she gestured: "I know Iddra. She's kept some things for me in my absence. I mean to get them. I think I've a weapon and some armor for you, but I need to see what I've stored here, aye?"

A scowl darkened his eyes. 

Serein sighed. "Fine."

The basement held most of the sleeping areas for the family of the establishment, but what most didn't know was that it also held several vaults. Serein suspected that at some point this was a dungeon to a castle, and over time, the elements reclaimed what was on the surface and the inn was built over what remained. She noted that there were at least two dozen cells and that was only what she saw; it was quite possible more were hidden. Her wolf-hearing made it clear that the town held no loyalty to the Empire or the Stormcloaks, and she assumed that both armies had caches here. 

Her's was somewhere in the middle, following by scent through the maze of passages, before finally coming to a medium sized cell, pulling her key from the pocket of her coat and unlocking the iron bars. 

  
The chests within were very organized, locks within locks, and with a few more hidden away behind bricks in the wall, even a hidden safe buried several feet down. The largest chest held what she was looking for. From within its depths she pulled stacks and stacks of folded leather armor, bespelled, plain, exotic, even some kinds of scale armor that was fortified but light to wear. She set aside what she thought the Stranger might fit, noting aloud that anything that needed length in leg or arm she could find someone to tailor it.

"Unless you want chain or plate," she added, digging through the chest some more. "Then we'll have to go to Riften, or Whiterun. I know in Whiterun, I can probably get it adjusted at cost."

She found some of the armor she'd worn before she'd decided to run away. They wouldn't fit her like they had, not with how much weight she'd lost. She missed her motherly curves, though the thick muscle had remained. Eating meat was easier than eating things like fruit and bread or sweet rolls-

_Oh, sweet rolls. A pie. Gods, I have missed pie._

Maybe she'd stay human a little longer. 

Her eyes cast to the Stranger as her thoughts moved to why she was human  _now_. There was no way she could go wolf around him, he was her responsibility for the time being and that meant not running away. Which also meant she would also have to deal with the world she wanted to leave behind. 

He had stripped to the waist, peeling off the jerkin he'd just tried on. It was a good fit but in truth, she didn't notice that right away; she couldn't tear her eyes away from the scars that riddled the planes of his back. 

They weren't (all) from whip marks or torture. There were many deliberate designs, portions of flesh intricately cut to create patterns and pictures. She saw city-scapes, monsters, strange plants, even words. There was nothing she recognized but it didn't matter; she couldn't tear her eyes away. 

"Ah, your-" she began, prompting him to twitch and look at her over his shoulder, the man looking like he meant to draw in and hide in shame. She cleared her throat and changed her mind. "You're filthy. Here-" she shoved a pair of under-linens and leather trews, as well as some fur-trimmed hides. "There's a towel in there too. And-" She handed him an embroidered pack. "To keep it all in."

His ragged fingernails brushed the stitching of a black fox on the gray felted wool. When he didn't look up at her, Serein explained, "I get bored on the road. Or. I did, when I traveled on it." Now she preferred running naked through the woods. Huzzah. 

Weapons took less time. The man didn't like shields or bows, but the way his eyes lit up when she pulled out the longswords and battle-blades told her all she needed to. It made sense, she supposed, watching him draw bastard sword after greathander after halbred from her collection. He was tall, stocky in the shoulders but he was faster than he looked; that kind of speed and strength would make him deadly with the right weapon and it looked like, in the end, the two-handed great sword she'd been gifted when she became a Companion. 

Skyforge steel was one of those most anyone could recognize on sight, but whether the Stranger did or not wasn't something she was privy to. He did linger over the edges and the designs, the honed blade and the perfect balance, the way it sang through the air after he did a series of quick, deft exercises. His large hands wrapped around the leather hilt and it spun like it weighed nothing as he moved. 

With the rest of the gear stowed away, he ducked under the doorway and she locked her 'vault' behind them, motioning the far end of the underground area, beyond the sleeping quarters of the owners, to a room carved from the rock. "Hot springs," she said. He wrinkled his nose at her but she still had that bar of soap, he caught it in his hands and nearly dropped his pack in the process. "I mean it. Bathe. Shave if you want. At the very least, brush your hair. Then, come get me after so I can have a go." Might as well. 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Serein woke to being jabbed in the shoulder.

"Oy. Get up. You have a problem."

She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, drool under her chin as she sat up from the cot she'd passed out on. Iddra was smart enough not to prod at the Dragonborn again, taking a step back as Serein sat up with a groan. The way she hurt, she'd slept for hours without moving. She rubbed at her tangled hair, wondered what the hour was. Why hadn't her traveling companion woken her to bathe?

"Problem?" she echoed to the innkeeper before yawning. "Nngh. Apologies."

"Yes," came the clipped reply, Iddra tense, moreso than Serein had ever seen her. "Your ... friend. He's made a mess. Come clean it up or cover the work."

Serein stared at the woman for what felt like minutes, not comprehending and blinking slowly as she struggled to absorb the words as Iddra unloaded all of them at the still-waking Serein. 

The Stranger had, apparently, taken his bath as Serein had asked him too, dressed in clean clothes, and then went on to get completely, disgustingly drunk. 

As Iddra told stories of singing horrible ballads, terrible tasteless pranks, and open snogging with any of the men and women that happened by, Serein distinctly felt the other shoe drop in this very strange situation she'd gotten herself into. He'd destroyed three benches, four tables (...they  _had_ four tables here...?), wasted at least a week's worth of food in unspeakable ways, released the prized goats the village kept nearby for cheese and milk, and then, to top it off, had peed all over the front steps to the inn before passing out on them. 

Dazed as she was, Serein still followed the other woman to just outside where, snoring on the porch and lit by the slowly rising, very early sun, was her ward. 

Clean now, she could see the scars across his face, a face with the unmistakable features of a  _mer_ -halfbreed, the strong lines and nose, the particular angle to the jaw, all things she missed under the dirt and greasy hair. Even his ears, mostly rounded, were faintly tipped. It explained the size of him, she'd bet coin one of his parents was full  _altmer_  at the very least. It also explained his bad luck and his worst habit; half-elves were never, ever treated well.

Sighing, she dug into the pouch she kept at her side, belted shut, and handed Iddra a very large sack of coins. The innkeeper blinked but said nothing, heading back into the inn and barking orders to have things turned rightside up and repaired, the door shutting behind her with a satisfied  _click._

Serein moved to kneel, looking at the steps that had been doused clean, the soggy edges of the Stranger, his telling attributes. Her nose wrinkled as her wolf-scent caught the smell of urine, wine, mead, ale, but, to her relief, not  _skooma_. A drunk she could deal with. A  _skooma_ addict? Less so, no matter what she owed him. 

As she stared at his sprawled, prone form, at the mess he'd made of the clothes she'd  _just_ given him, her wondering at what the hell to do with him was answered by a full bucket coming into her view. Iddra was back.

"Here," she said, a look of sympathy in her eyes. "Dump this on him. Tis' snow-melt. Then I'll have the boys toss him back in the springs." At Serein's surprise, Iddra smirked. "You pay on time or in advance, give me no trouble, and besides that, you're the  _Dovahkiin._ Don't know what you owe this idiot, but I can see a life-debt when it's hauled up in front of me. Drunks happen, specially his kind, aye? If you don't think he's worth it, say the word and I'll have the boys leave him on the dragon-mound up the mountain. Otherwise, if you want to save 'im? Your work starts now."

It was the most Iddra had ever said to Serein, and probably the best bit of well-timed advice she'd ever recalled getting. She looked back over her ward, decision made. She took the bucket and stood back. Iddra opened the door and barked more orders, a pair of strapping young men stomping out just as Serein upended the ice cold water on its intended target. 

Drunk and unconscious, the man was  _fast_  when he recovered.

No sooner was he up that he had a sword in his hand,  _her_ sword, hollering, cold water spattering about, and it was only because Serein was the one holding the bucket that he hesitated. He pushed frigid locks out of his eyes, indigo fire snapping as he went from outraged to confused, to shaking. He opened his mouth to speak only to have her disarm him and Iddra's boys dragging him back through the inn. Any kind of coordination witnessed by Serein was nowhere to be seen now, his lanky form flopping as he demanded release in shouts and growls. She heard the  _thunk-thunk-thunk_  of his heels on the stairs, before the howl, splash, and splutter that came afterwards. 

Serein felt nothing but gratitude as she wordlessly gave over another bag of coin, heading down the steps with her old greatsword over her shoulder. The boys stood back in the hall as she squeezed by, looking over the soaked, sorry mess of him she owed. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, most of it still dreaded if, she guessed, cleaner than when she found him, flung his arms out in an arcing spray of sulfur-scented droplets. 

"WHAT-" he shouted, only to find the tip of her sword covering just in front of his nose, her arm strong and steady, the weapon unwavering as the once-plump, still-commanding  _Dovahkiin_ dragged up every bit of her birthright to edge the words she cut him with:

"If I'm to help you for the life you saved, I need to know your name. You give it to me, I'll help you. I swear it, as  _Dovahdiin_ , an honored Companion, and everything else I am."

Her voice hung in the air, rippling through with the tiniest smidge of power she'd put in her declaration. She knew what he saw: a short woman with more curves to her than edges, more motherly than warrior, even with the weight she'd lost to her werewolf days. She also knew that her eyes could snap with the dragonsouls that swam inside her, that her hair bristled and her lip curled with the touch of the wolf, and that beneath her softness was a malleable steel the likes of which no one expected. It was the first time in months that she remembered who she was and she mentally added it to the list of things she owed this man. 

As she watched, he pushed his lanky hair back as it dripped, saw his eyes go guilty and his shoulders sag with the burden she'd sensed the moment she saw him in Windhelm; he'd been ready to die and for the life of her, she couldn't understand why. Her brow furrowed, the confusion rising to her face and caught by the stranger before her. Resignation set into the lines of him and he took a long, loud breath, flopping back to sit on the edge of the large tub he'd been dumped into. His elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose, head bowed, he looked up at her through damp lashes. Guilt. He reeked of it. Her sword tip dropped a few inches as she peered at him. 

"My name," he said after another sad, heavy sigh, "is Vallas Rogan, and I know who you are." His voice was rough and pure Nord; he was a Skyrim native, she'd stake her reputation on it.

"You owe me nothing," he continued hoarsely, despair soaking his words. "If not for me, you never would've been in Helgen in the first place."

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

The silent Stranger was no more. Now, Serein had Vallas Rogan. And Vallas Rogan was a completely different creature. 

Sitting in the carriage as they traversed the terrain from Kyne's Grove to a miller's town between there and Whiterun, Serein stared at the sleeping, lanky form of her new companion.

She rarely took up help on her travels, though the Companions of Whiterun often offered, especially as she climbed the ranks and their respect of her grew. Kodlak, of course, encouraged the pack-mentality, agreeing always that it was better to work in a team than not. Serein was different, the Dragonborn coming with extra burdens and responsibilities. The others left her be when she asked for it, but welcomed her back with all the warmth of a pack-sister. It was one of the few things she missed being away from home. 

Currently, Vallas was taking over most of the opposite bench, the only reason he wasn't on all of it was because half of him was sliding off, one heel braced against the floorboards between her feet, the other leg bent and half slung over the side of the cart, his other arm dangling above his head. The man was  _enormous,_ in the amount of space he took up when he moved, his height, the breadth of his shoulders.

Before, he'd hunched his shoulders and ducked his head, pulled himself in and tight. She recognized this now, that his sobriety was not a comfortable place for him to be. That he'd managed so long without surprised even him, laughing at his sober-self even as he drank down a bottle of Blackbriar Reserve in less than a minute. With the alcohol came an ease of movement, a relaxation, like he unfolded and stretched out, much as he was as she was looking at him. His joints seemed to run on mead, lubricated, the man going through sword exercises with her old blade with an ease that was uncanny- ... until he stubbed his toe after his morning paces. Then he'd fall over, or howl, or both...

He was noisy. He was loud and he was all over the place. 

In truth? Divines help her, Serein had no idea what to think of him or his story.

He wasn't just tall. He took up so much space, all the time, arms flailing, turning about, stomping through the brush. She didn't know him (or Kynareth forgive her, trust him) enough to take him on any of the odd jobs she'd read on the notice board, as tempting as it was to lose herself in simple mercenary work. Could he be quiet when he needed to be? Or were those big feet of his completely incapable of stealth without the aid of enchanments? 

 _I'll learn_ , she supposed, watching the halfbreed snore, drool sliding from the corner of his mouth. The scars across his cheeks were old, but she wasn't sure if he'd had them when she'd first met him. 

* * *

 

_"How were you responsible for Helgen?" she'd asked after his meek confession, staring at him as he resembled the drowned puppy he was currently acting out. "You weren't there."_

_He'd wiped the water from his face again, his scars pink from the heat, pushed his hair out of the way with a grumble. "No, I wasn't," he agreed, trying to stand. "But I'm why_ you _were."_

* * *

 

He snorted in his sleep, shifting to sprawl on his back, which made the snoring louder as his head tilted backwards.

Serein continued to stare at him. Those eyes, she remembered. Urgent, frustrated, staring at her like she was the most impossible person ever.  _Right._ The man at her door the day before she'd been captured. Her brow furrowed a little; remembering that far back was difficult, the wolf in her anchoring her in the present so steadfastly that it was hard to push her memory backward.

There were some things she couldn't forget, like her husband, odd looking Altmer that  _he_ was. His kisses every morning before he left to hunt. The warmth and love in him at night, tangled in each other. The pallor of his face, his hand in hers, when he'd died. 

Things that came after she remembered in sharp clarity, Alduin landing on the tower in Helgen, every dragon who's name she'd known, and killed, in the months later. The Shouts burned inside of her skull. 

The taste of Aela's blood when they turned Serein. The first night running free with the wolf howling inside her. 

Durak. 

Lost in memory, her eyes snapped to Vallas as he sat up with a groan, rubbing at his shorn head, the remnants of locks she'd insisted he cut. Hot water and soap could only do so much, and the man had  _lice._ His hair was more blonde than brown, and if she wasn't mistaken, along the edges of his hairline it was revealed that he had ink along his scalp. She hadn't asked; she was still trying to process everything else this man presented to her. 

 _Iddra might be right,_ she thought ruefully.  _He could be more trouble than he's worth._

"Where are we?" he grunted, shifting on the narrow bench, both hands rubbing at his head now. His expression was perplexed. She suspected he wasn't used to haircut. 

"Coming into Mixwater Mill, good sir," came the driver's reply. Just as well; Serein was in no mood to talk. "Small town, no mistake, but welcoming all the same. Got an inn and a general store, small population of folks that work the mine..." He continued to speak, his words trailing off as Serein closed her eyes and tilted her head back, breathing in the woods and scent of water. 

Whiterun. She wanted to go home, now that she was invested in being human for a while. Her house, the mountain of messages waiting for her, Lydia's disapproving welcome...

_On second thought-_

The carriage shifted as Vallas fell out with enough coordination to land on his feet, running his hands through his hair before turning to offer Serein a steady grip. She simply stare at him as she hopped out, his hand untaken; did he think her feeble?

The drunk smiled sheepishly and did another scalp rub. "Right, sorry-" 

She shook her head at him, shoulder in dismissive forgiveness, and headed towards the inn. The carriage was heading to a stable at the end of the lane. The sky was darkening and the stars were starting to come out. They'd left Kyne's Grove late, she wasn't surprised they'd had to stop along the way. 

"Will he wait for us?" Vallas asked, moving ahead to open the inn door, hand braced over her head as he pushed. "You didn't pay him in advance, did you-?"

The look she gave him now spoke volumes. His gold-tan cheeks went rosy. He cleared his throat. "You say a great deal, you know, without saying a single word," he grumbled. "Mostly in how stupid you think me."

Serein winced. As the warmth of the establishment welcomed them in, she inquired about a room from the first server to greet them. They were motioned towards the innkeeper, and with board taken care of, she gestured for Vallas to sit at a corner table, following suit after ordering food. 

He had a mug full of mead, quickly emptied and poured another. She watched him silently, waiting. 

Indigo eyes flicked up to her midway through his third mug. He licked his lip and set it down, his free hand running over his shorn scalp again. He was going to speak, she could see it in the shift of his shoulders, the way his brow puckered. He was easier to read drunk than he ever was sober. 

"Talking," she began, her voice rough with lack of use, "is hard. To get used to." She licked her lips, took a sip of her own mead, letting the gentle burn warm her throat. Thankfully, Vallas stayed quiet and let her take her time. She appreciated the patience. "What surprises me is that you are having less trouble. Given your silence in Windhelm, and before, when I saw you at the Towers."

Sword calloused fingers rubbed at the surface of the table, his eyes intent on them in the silence that came after her hard won words. The chair under him creaked as he shifted, soft music flowing from the opposite side of the inn as a minstrel filled the air with a soothing song. The crackle of the fire cradled the evening with the promise of warmth and safety; Serein knew there were worst places to be in the world. 

"Why were you silent, my lady?" he asked abruptly. Serein blinked at the man, turning to look at the  _mer-_ halfbreed as he turned the conversation back to her. She didn't mind, however. She could use the practice, and Vallas knew her secret. Or, rather, she suspected he did and he was dancing around the subject. 

Taking a sip from her mug, she licked her lips before replying carefully, "The talking itself isn't difficult. It's remembering that I can. When..." She paused, eyes darting around the room. The other patrons were conversing with each other, or singing along with the bard who performed in her pretty white clothing, strumming her lute as she sang. Serein shifted in her seat and lowered her voice, eyes on her mug, "-when you wear fur, as I did, you learn that the language of the wild is spoken in the body. Speaking isn't necessary, isn't wanted; the creatures of the wilds all have different voices, how would they understand each other anyway?"

Vallas frowned at her, finished off his  _fourth_ mug of mead. It wasn't even pulling at his eyes, the impossible man. Did he even  _have_ a liver? "The body?" he echoed, not understanding. 

There was a hunting hound sitting near the hearth at the end of the room, upright, his eyes on Serein. They had been since she'd entered, something she'd long grown used to. She gestured to the dog, Vallas turning in his chair to follow her movement. "See that? Beast is tense. How do I know that?" she asked quietly, taking another sip.

The halfbreed frowned, the line between his brows deepening. "Well I..." he began, before going quiet again. Seconds ticked by. "Shoulders," he decided at last. "Its got its legs out in front of it, probably move to standing pretty quickly. And it won't stop looking this way, like it knows-" Indigo eyes darted to her, then back to the dog. "-like it knows there's a threat. His tail is still too."

"Mmm. And most dogs wag their tails when there are people around," Serein agreed. "His eyes are also fixed and the pupils narrow. He's not just tense."

"He's afraid," Vallas finished softly, his eyes on the beast once more. 

She said nothing, rubbing her fingers on the edge of the table. She'd lost her callouses from archery, the pads of her digits too soft. She winced when a splinter snagged the skin, rubbing it free a second later. "Aye. All that and without speaking." The smile she gave was fleeting and without humor or joy, she didn't even meet Vallas' eyes; too tired to pretend. "You learn a language and you start to think in it, that's how you know you've a measure of fluency, aye?" She finished her mug of mead, a droplet escaping the corner of her mouth to slide down her chin. A hand came up to wipe it away, rubbing at her collar as she considered the man across from her. "So I forget to use words, speak with the body instead. It's how I 'spoke'for the most part. But it works on the two-legged as well, whether they know it or not, even when they're inebriated. In some cases," she added, her eyes meeting his, dark to blue, "better when that's the case."

His cheeks went a little ruddy but not with shame, the grin that broke out on his face all unabashed delight. He laughed outright and raised his mug, quickly refilled by the pretty bard who was apparently also a server. He gave the singer an appreciative wink, before drinking half his mead and looking back to Serein. "Aye, my lady, I've my vices and I don't regret them. You saw me 'fore, mute and pliable, restless sleeper, cranky as fuck," he chuckled. "Something about the spirits, broken head or spirit is what I was told, only come out of my shell when the booze is in me." He threw back what had to be his fifth mug, belching right after. "Better fighter, better talker, better ... well...." His eyes fell on the minstrel, watching her bend over to retrieve her lute in what Serein thought was the  _slowest_ gesture ever. "-so! I take my medicine, go on my way, sleep like the dead, fight like the Daedra."

The Dragonborn watched him, watched how he insulted himself without knowing, how his body said he'd given up trying, that he was waiting for something bad to happen. The roof to cave in, maybe, or a knife in the back. Did he know how transparent he was? No. No, he was proud, an enigma wrapped in a hypocrisy. 

Broken. 

That she could see so easily through his bravado unnerved her; she was good at reading people, she knew this, she'd always known that the lines of posture and the quirk of a facial feature could give away a great deal. But with Vallas, it was like reading-

 _-ancient script on a decaying wall, a_ Shout _translated through her eyes, the dragon inside, and etched on her soul._

Serein shook away the comparison. Unusual, maybe, damaged he was for sure, this  _mer-_ halfbreed. More than likely, he took better care of himself than she could in ever helping him finding his way. His way where, though? 

Maybe she should ask him. 

The sliding of her chair across the flagstone floor as she stood brought momentary silence to the small hall. Vallas looked up at her the scant inches she had on him whilst he sat, concern on his face, the expression fleeting and gone a moment later. 

"I'm to bed. Don't fall too hard into your cups, the driver is paid to wait for us and I want to be gone before noon," she said, doing her best to keep her tone even. Everyone had their ways of coping; his was to drink, her's was to go werewolf. She had no right to judge him. 

He raised his mug to her as she slid by, ignoring the delight on the bard's face as she bustled past the Dragonborn and likely went to make her home in Vallas' lap. As she passed the front counter, a soft ' _Dovahkiin?'_ caught Serein's attention, making the skin up the back of her neck prickle in foreboding.

Serein took a long, deep breath. Ah. Here it was. 

A few minutes later, sat in her own room with the larger bed she'd requested (Vallas had the adjoining room), she stared at the hastily drawn map in her hand. The frantic words of ringing in her ears as if they'd been screamed and not whispered in tight concern. 

"A dragon," she whispered in the silence of her room, the fear from the innkeeper still heavy in her nose. 

 _Dovahkiin,_  whispered the old men on the mountain, the hairs rising along the skin of her arms.

Dammit.


	16. Chapter 16

They'd been dead a day or two, Serein decided, crouched by the overturned cart, the mangled horse still attached with its wide, terrified eyes. The khajit on the ground couldn't have been traveling alone, not with the supplies and the packed gear, knapsacks of different colors. Nothing of use in any of it, a few coins she took to offer at a shrine somewhere in the memory of strangers were all she salvaged. Everything else had been smashed.

But none of it burned.

The scent of mammoth filled her nose the more she sifted through the wreckage, the unique, rich smell of giants added to the mix. No, the innkeeper had sent her to look for friends, spoke of dragon's cry that she suspected had frightened them or worse. Well, it was worse, but it wasn't dragons. Deciding that she had the time, Serein took a moment to run her hands over the dead pony, closing its eyes before removing its tack. The Wolf inside her approved, even if the timing was terrible; the pony looked better without its bridle and reins, and Serein sent a fleeting prayer to Hircine that he might give the beast a measure of peace in the wild freedom of the Hunt. Maybe it was silly. Serein didn't care. 

She'd left before dawn, too restless to wait for Vallas to rouse from his drunken slumber. He usually woke at the light of day, ran himself through a series of complicated blade exercises, dunked his head in the coldest water he could find, and then go about his business. Dragons were her business, not something she wanted to expose anyone to or burden with. Recollection assured her she was always like this, even before she went Wolf, but it was different now. Durak's reaction to her shedding of flesh, even to save his life, made her hesitant to bring anyone further into her mess. Vallas was a stranger but the unusual circumstance of their ... partnership? ...had already granted him deeper access to her complicated life, and she'd been given little choice in that.

It was something that she'd mulled over on her walk through the gloom, sand and brittle brush crunching underfoot as she walked the miles to the crushed cart, following her nose more than the map. The Wolf inside her reminded her that she could shed skin and clothing and run faster than her measly two legs could in this form, but she politely told the Wolf to shove it. As much as it pained her to admit, the Wolf was an escape, convenient and all too easy to hide in. It felt important for her to remember that she was the  _Dovahkiin_ , a woman not so easily torn apart by dragon or duty. She wouldn't let sorrow and grief get the best of her, either. 

In truth it felt good to be out on her own, the man passed out drooling on the breasts of the pretty bard back on the inn a strange anchor to her humanity. The Wolf would do him no good, unless she Bit him. Even then? Even then, it wasn't something she suspected he wanted. He struggled to live as he was, halfbreed, broken, how would another presence in his soul help that?

This particular thought clicked into place as she stood and dusted off her hands, looking to the north, her nose twitching as she caught the scent of living, breathing giant. Her ears could catch in the distance the rumble and trumpet of mammoths as well, nevermind the massive disturbance of dirt and road that led in that direction. 

 _Hunt_ , said the Wolf in her chest. Serein smiled. Yes. Hunt. 

But this time, she would do it as just herself. 

 _Hmph,_ snorted the Wolf.  _No fun in that._

 _Who says?_ came Serein's retort, and in her mind's eye, the wolf wagged its tail in amusement. 

She tugged Roar over her shoulder, the warm red wood supple under her fingers as she remembered how to pull, bend, hook the bowstring, her other hand reaching for the arrows without thought.  _Hunt_ , the Wolf said, pleased. Serein smiled again, the muscles of her face twinging a little as the true expression stretched flesh that couldn't be bothered for months. On silent feet, she headed north, her arrow knocked  as she made use of cover to dart the short distances between them. 

Downwind, the scent of giant and beast was strong, overpowering to her enhanced nose, her eyes watering as she tried not to choke when she broke over the rise, greeted by enormous rocks with strange markings. The boulders reeked of mammoth scent, urine and bodily fluids both fertile and fatal. The Wolf tried not to gag, the woman pressed her lips together and swallowed back the bile. Smells in human form would be something to get used to again. 

On her belly, she squirmed to the edge of the outcropping she'd climbed, drawn by the large bonfire burning at its base, the scent of cheese pungent and fresh. There, sitting by the roaring flames, was the giant. Her eyes scanned the area, taking in the supplies of living the creature had, his club at his side, the mammoth he herded in the distance. Eventually, she saw what she was looking for: the body of a khajit, its limbs broken like matchsticks, stuffed along the side of a far outcropping like so much discarded waste. Serein felt a twinge of sorrow, but by the look of the previous scene and the scent of decay from here, he'd died not long after his abandoned friend. 

Having ascertained that the cause for the missing friends was giant and not  _dovah_ , Serein made the decision to leave the giant be. She could tackle dragons, sure, but giants were a different thing altogether, added to the fact that she had no quarrel with giants, well... She had no desire to kill it. 

It was just as she'd made this choice that her ears caught the loud, brazen crunch of big feet on gravel, sand, and dead brush. 

 _No,_ she thought, head lifting a fraction to peer past a large boulder.  _No, break his bones and skin him raw, he_ didn't-...!

Oh Divines damn it all. Yes. He did. 

"Oy! Ugly!" came Vallas' all too-delighted cry. "Yeah, I'm talking to you! Look at me!"

 _What the_ fuck _is he doing?_ she thought, eyes going wide as she watched him fucking-well  _saunter_ toward the giant's little valley in the outcropping, said beast moving to stand, grabbing his club as he turned to scowl at the approaching halfbreed.  _He's insane! He's going to get murdered and I'm going to have to find his body and-_

Vallas began waving his arms, making sure to obtain all the attention of the giant as it stalked towards him. Even in the low light of false-dawn, she could see his face pale, and then, with a jolt, watched as indigo eyes looked right at her. He mouthed,  _well?_ at her with a look of absolute panic. 

Serein grit her teeth, the wood of her bow creaking as she flexed her hands around the shaft.  _That fucker. He thinks I mean to kill the giant. Dammit. Dammit! What a-_

* * *

 

"-presumptive, stupid, moronic son of a bitch," she snapped at him, still out of breath as she climbed over the prone form of the dead, humanoid behemoth. Vallas was bent over, hands on his knees, shaking as he struggled to breathe. She watched as he gave up and fell over, chest heaving as he filled his lungs with deep lungfuls of air. Uncaring, pitiless, she marched over to him and kicked him in the ribs. Yelping at her, he tried to scramble away, confusion in him as he rubbed at his side and glared at her. 

"What was  _that_ for?" he barked at her. "I was helping! Even after you abandoned me at the inn-"

"I didn't abandon you!" she growled at him. "I was checking up on something for the innkeeper!" She pointed to the broken khajit rotting along the edge of the clearing. "See that? He's got a brother in a cart about a half mile that way," she explained, her finger swinging to point south. "They've been missing a few days, friends of in Mixwater wanted me to look into it when they missed their arrival time." Vallas continued to glare at her. She rolled her eyes and picked up piece of bone to throw at him in her frustration. She didn't aim well on purpose, it missed him by a good foot but he still ducked and yelped.

"I don't see how-" he began in heated protest, on his feet and dusting himself off a moment later.

"I wasn't going to kill it!" she finally yelled him, a touch of Shout in a syllable or two, making the ground under her feet jump in response. She ignored it. "They invaded his territory, what was I going to do about it? Arrest him? Tell him he was a bad giant for doing what all giants do?" Her wild gestures at the idiotic man were fruitless and only made her look foolish. She dropped her arms and moved to the chest, digging in her pouch for lockpicks.  Might as well see if there was anything worth keeping. Swearing under her breath, she jammed her first pick and snapped it before she'd so much as tensed the tumbler. Fuck. 

It was about the tenth pick snapped that she was pushed aside, Vallas' hands on her shoulders. Tense, she snarled with every bit of Wolf in her she could without outright Changing in front of him, and he jerked back in surprise to see her bared teeth and their subtle _click_ when she snapped them, the harsh noise that rolled from her throat.

She was angry, angry at  _him._ It was unnecessary, the death of the giant, the body of the large shepherd of mammoths sprawled by the fire he'd lived by for Divines-knew how long. It was her arrow that had dealt the killing blow while Vallas had run literal circles around the giant, her arrow and a dozen others that had pierced the monster's armor, brought it to its knees and under her crosshairs. 

This just made her feel worse to think on, and she shoved at him almost violently to get out of her way. He didn't even stagger, looking at her instead with those stupid indigo eyes, understanding finally dawning, shame coloring his cheeks. 

It was the sight of this that mollified Serein somewhat. She settled for scowling at him, teeth behind tight lips. Waiting. He reached out again, pulling the picks from her fingers. 

"Here," he mumbled. "Let me." He didn't even complain when she stepped on his foot to let him by, dropping her leather folded case at his feet. Serein was beyond caring at the moment if she hurt him or not, something the woman didn't approve of and the wolf thought a waste of energy. Either way, Serein felt like punishing the man. 

And yet she didn't. 

When they returned to Mixwater Mill with the contents of the knapsacks as proof of the khajits' demise, Serein took the job of informing the friend that had sent her. The Breton looked stricken, and then devastated, understanding that they brothers only had themselves to blame, going without the heeded warnings of giant territory. 

That she still paid Serein anyway surprised the Dragonborn, who took the pouch only when the woman insisted, again and again, that it was the least she could do. 

"You went out of your way for me, put yourself in danger," came the watery reassurance of the innkeeper. "All to grant me closure. I can't imagine how a dragon would be much better, but... I thank you,  _Dovahkiin_ , for your help regardless."

Vallas didn't argue when she shoved the pouch and him. She told him he could spend it on anything except booze,  _skooma_ , or food. With his short cropped hair and too-knowing eyes, he'd only nodded, his gaze on her as she headed out to the stables to check on the driver and their rented carriage. It bothered her that he'd seen her fray. She's almost Shouted at him. Idiot that he was, he wouldn't have deserved that. 

An hour later, settled back in the carriage as they made the last, long leg to Whiterun, Serein took advantage of the silence and stretched out on her bench, one arm thrown over her eyes, ignoring Vallas and the whistling tune of the driver. 

 _Home soon_ , she thought.  _Home and rest, and then I can regroup._ With the thought came a sigh.

_Then maybe I can figure out what the hell it is I'm doing._

 


End file.
